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HOUGHTON,   MIFFLIN   &   COMPANY, 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY 


FIRST  OPENING  OF 

THE  NEH/  PORTFOLIO 


BY 


OLIVER  WENDELL   HOLMES 


NINTH    EDITION 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
tatfe  Ittoersibe  Press,  <rr.mbr:&0e 
1890 


Copyright,  1885, 
BY  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

AU  rigJits  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,   U.  S.  A- 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  II.  0.  lloughton  &  Company. 


A/ 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

FIRST  OPENING  OF  THE  NEW  PORTFOLIO.    INTRODUCTION   .  1 

I.  GETTING  READY 33 

II.   THE  BOAT-RACE 46 

III.  THE  WHITE  CANOE 53 

IV.  THE  YOUNG  SOLITARY 60 

V.  THE  ENIGMA  STUDIED 73 

VI.  STILL  AT  FAULT 77 

VII.  A  RECORD  OF  ANTIPATHIES 87 

VIII.   THE  PANSOPHIAN  SOCIETY 94 

IX.  THE  SOCIETY  AND  ITS  NEW  SECRETARY         .        .      117 
X.   A  NEW  ARRIVAL   .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  130 

XI.   THE  INTERVIEWER  ATTACKS  THE  SPHINX      .        .      145 
XII.   Miss  VINCENT  AS  A  MEDICAL  STUDENT    .        .        .  161 

XIII.  DR.  BUTTS  READS  A  PAPER 166 

XIV.  Miss  VINCENT'S  STARTLING  DISCOVERY    .        .        .  174 
XV.  DR.  BUTTS  CALLS  ON  EUTHYMIA      ....       186 

XVI.  Miss  VINCENT  WRITES  A  LETTER  .  .  .  .192 

XVII.  DR.  BUTTS'S  PATIENT 202 

XVIII.  MAURICE  KIRKWOOD'S  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE  .  .  207 

XIX.  THE  REPORT  OF  THE  BIOLOGICAL  COMMITTEE  .  228 
XX.  DR.  BUTTS  REFLECTS 240 

XXI.  AN  INTIMATE  CONVERSATION 248 

XXII.  EUTHYMIA 254 

XXIII.  THE  MKETING  OF  MAURICE  AND  EUTHYMIA          .      261 

XXIV.  THE  INEVITABLE 277 

POSTSCRIPT  :  AFTER-GLIMPSES         ....      283 


625466 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

FIRST    OPENING    OF    THE    NEW    PORTFOLIO. 
INTRODUCTION. 

"AND  why  the  New  Portfolio,  I  would  ask?" 

Pray,  do  you  remember,  when  there  was  an  accession 
to  the  nursery  in  which  you  have  a  special  interest, 
whether  the  new-comer  was  commonly  spoken  of  as  a 
baby?  Was  it  not,  on  the  contrary,  invariably,  under 
all  conditions,  in  all  companies,  by  the  whole  house 
hold,  spoken  of  as  the  baby?  And  was  the  small 
receptacle  provided  for  it  commonly  spoken  of  as  a 
cradle ;  or  was  it  not  always  called  the  cradle,  as  if 
there  were  no  other  in  existence  ? 

Now  this  New  Portfolio  is  the  cradle  in  which  I  am 
to  rock  my  new-born  thoughts,  and  from  which  I  am  to 
lift  them  carefully  and  show  them  to  callers,  namely, 
to  the  whole  family  of  readers  belonging  to  my  list  of 
intimates,  and  such  other  friends  as  may  drop  in  by 
accident.  And  so  it  shall  have  the  definite  article, 
and  not  be  lost  in  the  mob  of  its  fellows  as  a  portfolio. 

There  are  a  few  personal  and  incidental  matters  of 
which  I  wish  to  say  something  before  reaching  the 
contents  of  the  Portfolio,  whatever  these  may  be.  I 
have  had  other  portfolios  before  this,  —  two,  more  es 
pecially,  and  the  first  thing  I  beg  leave  to  introduce 
relates  to  these. 

1 


2  THE  NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

Do  not  throw  this  volume  down,  or  turn  to  another 
page,  when  I  tell  you  that  the  earliest  of  them,  that  of 
which  I  now  am  about  to  speak,  was  opened  more 
than  fifty  years  ago.  This  is  a  very  dangerous  con 
fession,  for  fifty  years  make  everything  hopelessly 
old-fashioned,  without  giving  it  the  charm  of  real  an 
tiquity.  If  I  could  say  a  hundred  years,  now,  my 
readers  would  accept  all  I  had  to  tell  them  with  a 
curious  interest ;  but  fifty  years  ago,  —  there  are  too 
many  talkative  old  people  who  know  all  about  that 
time,  and  at  best  half  a  century  is  a  half-baked  bit 
of  ware.  A  coin-fancier  would  say  that  your  fifty- 
year-old  facts  have  just  enough  of  antiquity  to  spot 
them  with  rust,  and  not  enough  to  give  them  the 
delicate  and  durable  patina  which  is  time's  exquisite 
enamel. 

When  the  first  Portfolio  was  opened  the  coin  of  the 
realm  bore  for  its  legend,  —  or  might  have  borne  if 
the  more  devout  hero-worshippers  could  have  had  their 
way,  —  Andreas  Jackson,  Populi  Gratia,  Imp.  Cae 
sar.  Aug.  Div.  Max.,  etc.,  etc.  I  never  happened  to 
see  any  gold  or  silver  with  that  legend,  but  the  truth  is 
I  was  not  very  familiarly  acquainted  with  the  precious 
metals  at  that  period  of  my  career,  and  there  might 
have  been  a  good  deal  of  such  coin  in  circulation  with 
out  my  handling  it,  or  knowing  much  about  it. 

Permit  me  to  indulge  in  a  few  reminiscences  of  that 
far-off  time. 

In  those  days  the  Athenaeum  Picture  Gallery  was  a 
principal  centre  of  attraction  to  young  Boston  people 
and  their  visitors.  Many  of  us  got  our  first  ideas  of 
art,  to  say  nothing  of  our  first  lessons  in  the  compara 
tively  innocent  flirtations  of  our  city's  primitive  pe- 
uod,  in  that  agreeable  resort  of  amateurs  and  artists. 


INTRODUCTION.  3 

How  the  pictures  on  those  walls  in  Pearl  Street  do 
keep  their  places  in  the  mind's  gallery!  Truinbull's 
Sortie  of  Gibraltar,  with  red  enough  in  it  for  one  of 
our  sunset  after-glows;  and  Neagle's  full-length  por 
trait  of  the  blacksmith  in  his  shirt-sleeves ;  and  Cop 
ley's  long-waistcoated  gentlemen  and  satin-clad  ladies, 
—  they  looked  like  gentlemen  and  ladies,  too ;  and 
Stuart's  florid  merchants  and  high-waisted  matrons ; 
and  Allston's  lovely  Italian  scenery  and  dreamy,  un- 
irnpassioned  women,  not  forgetting  Florimel  in  full 
flight  on  her  interminable  rocking-horse,  —  you  may 
still  see  her  at  the  Art  Museum ;  and  the  rival  land 
scapes  of  Doughty  and  Fisher,  much  talked  of  and 
largely  praised  in  those  days ;  and  the  Murillo,  —  not 
from  Marshal  Soult's  collection ;  and  the  portrait  of 
Annibale  Caracci  by  himself,  which  cost  the  Athe 
naeum  a  hundred  dollars ;  and  Cole's  allegorical  pic 
tures,  and  his  immense  and  dreary  canvas,  in  which 
the  prostrate  shepherds  and  the  angel  in  Joseph's 
coat  of  many  colors  look  as  if  they  must  have  been 
thrown  in  for  nothing ;  and  West's  brawny  Lear  tear 
ing  his  clothes  to  pieces.  But  wkv  go  on  with  the 
catalogue,  when  most  of  these  pictures  can  be  seen 
either  at  the  Athenaeum  building  in  Beacon  Street  or 
at  the  Art  Gallery,  and  admired  or  criticised  perhaps 
more  justly,  certainly  not  more  generously,  than  in 
those  earlier  years  when  we  looked  at  them  through 
the  japanned  fish-horns  ? 

If  one  happened  to  pass  through  Atkinson  Street 
on  his  way  to  the  Athenaeum,  he  would  notice  a  large, 
square,  painted,  brick  house,  in  which  lived  a  leading 
representative  of  old-fashioned  coleopterous  Calvinism, 
and  from  which  emerged  one  of  the  liveliest  of  liter 
ary  butterflies.  The  father  was  editor  of  the  "  Boston 


4:  THE   NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

Recorder,"  a  very  respectable,  but  very  far  from  amus 
ing  paper,  most  largely  patronized  by  that  class  of  the 
community  which  spoke  habitually  of  the  first  day  of 
the  week  as  "  the  Sahbuth."  The  son  was  the  editor 
of  several  different  periodicals  in  succession,  none  of 
them  over  severe  or  serious,  and  of  many  pleasant 
books,  filled  with  lively  descriptions  of  society,  which 
he  studied  on  the  outside  with  a  quick  eye  for  form 
and  color,  and  with  a  certain  amount  of  sentiment,  not 
very  deep,  but  real,  though  somewhat  frothed  over  by 
his  worldly  experiences. 

Nathaniel  Parker  Willis  was  in  full  bloom  when 
I  opened  my  first  Portfolio.  He  had  made  himself 
known  by  his  religious  poetry,  published  in  his  father's 
paper,  I  think,  and  signed  "  Roy."  He  had  started 
the  "  American  Magazine,"  afterwards  merged  in  the 
"  New  York  Mirror."  He  had  then  left  off  writing 
scripture  pieces,  and  taken  to  lighter  forms  of  verse. 
He  had  just  written 

"  I  'm  twenty-two,  I  'm  twenty-two,  — 

They  idly  give  me  joy, 
As  if  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
That  I  was  less  a  boy." 

He  was  young,  therefore,  and  already  famous.  He 
came  very  near  being  very  handsome.  He  was  tall ; 
his  hair,  of  light  brown  color,  waved  in  luxuriant 
abundance ;  his  cheek  was  as  rosy  as  if  it  had  been 
painted  to  show  behind  the  footlights ;  he  dressed  with 
artistic  elegance.  He  was  something  between  a  re 
membrance  of  Count  D'Orsay  and  an  anticipation  of 
Oscar  Wilde.  There  used  to  be  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Luxembourg  a  picture  of  Hippolytus  and  Phaedra,  in 
which  the  beautiful  young  man,  who  had  kindled  a 
passion  in  the  heart  of  his  wicked  step-mother,  always 


INTRODUCTION.  5 

reminded  me  of  Willis,  in  spite  of  the  shortcomings 
of  the  living  face  as  compared  with  the  ideal.  The 
painted  youth  is  still  blooming  on  the  canvas,  but  the 
fresh-cheeked,  jaunty  young  author  of  the  year  1830 
has  long  faded  out  of  human  sight  I  took  the  leaves 
which  lie  before  me  at  this  moment,  as  I  write,  from 
his  coffin,  as  it  lay  just  outside  the  door  of  Saint 
Paul's  Church,  on  a  sad,  overclouded  winter's  day,  in 
the  year  1867.  At  that  earlier  time,  Willis  was  by  far 
the  most  prominent  young  American  author.  Cooper, 
Irving,  Bryant,  Dana,  Halleck,  Drake,  had  all  done 
their  best  work.  Longfellow  was  not  yet  conspicuous. 
Lowell  was  a  school-boy.  Emerson  was  unheard  of. 
Whittier  was  beginning  to  make  his  way  against  the 
writers  with  better  educational  advantages  whom  he 
was  destined  to  outdo  and  to  outlive.  Not  one  of  the 
great  histories,  which  have  done  honor  to  our  litera 
ture,  had  appeared.  Our  school-books  depended,  so 
far  as  American  authors  were  concerned,  on  extracts 
from  the  orations  and  speeches  of  Webster  and  Ev 
erett  ;  on  Bryant's  Thanatopsis,  his  lines  To  a  Water 
fowl,  and  the  Death  of  the  Flowers,  Halleck's  Marco 
Bozzaris,  Red-Jacket,  and  Burns  ;  on  Drake's  Amer 
ican  Flag,  and  Percival's  Coral  Grove,  and  his  Gen 
ius  Sleeping  and  Genius  Waking,  —  and  not  getting 
very  wide  awake,  either.  These  could  be  depended 
upon.  A  few  other  copies  of  verses  might  be  found, 
but  Dwight's  "Columbia,  Columbia,"  and  Pierpont's 
Airs  of  Palestine,  were  already  effaced,  as  many  of 
the  favorites  of  our  own  day  and  generation  must 
soon  be,  by  the  great  wave  which  the  near  future  will 
pour  over  the  sands  in  which  they  still  are  legible. 

About  this  time,  in  the  year  1832,  came  out  a  small 
volume  entitled  "  Truth,  a  Gift  for  Scribblers,"  which 


6  THE  NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

made  some  talk  for  a  while,  and  is  now  chiefly  valu 
able  as  a  kind  of  literary  tombstone  on  which  may  be 
read  the  names  of  many  whose  renown  has  been  bur 
ied  with  their  bones.  The  "  London  Athenaeum  "  spoke 
of  it  as  having  been  described  as  a  "  tomahawk  sort  of 
satire."  As  the  author  had  been  a  trapper  in  Mis 
souri,  he  was  familiarly  acquainted  with  that  weapon 
and  the  warfare  of  its  owners.  Born  in  Boston,  in 
1804,  the  son  of  an  army  officer,  educated  at  West 
Point,  he  came  back  to  his  native  city  about  the  year 
1830.  He  wrote  an  article  on  Bryant's  Poems  for  the 
"North  American  Review,"  and  another  on  the  famous 
Indian  chief,  Black  Hawk.  In  this  last-mentioned 
article  he  tells  this  story  as  the  great  warrior  told  it 
himself.  It  was  an  incident  of  a  fight  with  the  Osages. 

"  Standing  by  my  father's  side,  I  saw  him  kill  his 
antagonist  and  tear  the  scalp  from  his  head.  Fired 
with  valor  and  ambition,  I  rushed  furiously  upon  an 
other,  smote  him  to  the  earth  with  my  tomahawk,  ran 
my  lance  through  his  body,  took  off  his  scalp,  and  re 
turned  in  triumph  to  my  father.  He  said  nothing, 
but  looked  pleased." 

This  little  red  story  describes  very  well  Snelling's 
style  of  literary  warfare.  His  handling  of  his  most 
conspicuous  victim,  Willis,  was  very  much  like  Black 
Hawk's  way  of  dealing  with  the  Osage.  He  toma 
hawked  him  in  heroics,  ran  him  through  in  prose,  and 
scalped  him  in  barbarous  epigrams.  Bryant  and  Hal- 
leek  were  abundantly  praised  ;  hardly  any  one  else 
escaped. 

If  the  reader  wishes  to  see  the  bubbles  of  reputa 
tion  that  were  floating,  some  of  them  gay  with  pris 
matic  colors,  half  a  century  ago,  he  will  find  in  the 
pages  of  "Truth"  a  long  catalogue  of  celebrities  he 


INTRODUCTION.  7 

never  heard  of.  I  recognize  only  three  names,  of  all 
which  are  mentioned  in  the  little  book,  as  belonging 
to  persons  still  living;  but  as  I  have  not  read  the 
obituaries  of  all  the  others,  some  of  them  may  be  still 
flourishing  in  spite  of  Mr.  Snelling's  exterminating 
onslaught.  Time  dealt  as  hardly  with  poor  Snelling, 
who  was  not  without  talent  and  instruction,  as  he  had 
dealt  with  our  authors.  I  think  he  found  shelter  at 
last  under  a  roof  which  held  numerous  inmates,  some 
of  whom  had  seen  better  and  many  of  whom  had 
known  worse  days  than  those  which  they  were  passing 
within  its  friendly  and  not  exclusive  precincts.  Such, 
at  least,  was  the  story  I  heard  after  he  disappeared 
from  general  observation. 

That  was  the  day  of  Souvenirs,  Tokens,  Forget-me- 
nots,  Bijous,  and  all  that  class  of  showy  annuals. 
Short  stories,  slender  poems,  steel  engravings,  on  a 
level  with  the  common  fashion-plates  of  advertising 
establishments,  gilt  edges,  resplendent  binding,  —  to 
manifestations  of  this  sort  our  lighter  literature  had 
very  largely  run  for  some  years.  The  "  Scarlet  Let 
ter"  was  an  unhinted  possibility.  The  "Voices  of  the 
Night "  had  not  stirred  the  brooding  silence  ;  the  Con 
cord  seer  was  still  in  the  lonely  desert ;  most  of  the 
contributors  to  those  yearly  volumes,  which  took  up 
such  pretentious  positions  on  the  centre  table,  have 
shrunk  into  entire  oblivion,  or,  at  best,  hold  their  place 
in  literature  by  a  scrap  or  two  in  some  omnivorous 
collection. 

What  dreadful  work  Snelling  made  among  those 
slight  reputations,  floating  in  swollen  tenuity  on  the 
surface  of  the  stream,  and  mirroring  each  other  in  re 
ciprocal  reflections !  Violent,  abusive  as  he  was,  un 
just  to  any  against  whom  he  happened  to  have  a  pre- 


8  THE  NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

judice,  his  castigation  of  the  small  litterateurs  of  that 
day  was  not  harmful,  but  rather  of  use.  His  attack 
on  Willis  very  probably  did  him  good ;  he  needed  a 
little  discipline,  and  though  he  got  it  too  unsparingly, 
some  cautions  came  with  it  which  were  worth  the 
stripes  he  had  to  smart  under.  One  noble  writer 
Snelling  treated  with  rudeness,  probably  from  some 
accidental  pique,  or  equally  insignificant  reason.  I 
myself,  one  of  the  three  survivors  before  referred  to, 
escaped  with  a  love-pat,  as  the  youngest  son  of  the 
Muse.  Longfellow  gets  a  brief  nod  of  acknowledg 
ment.  Bailey,  an  American  writer,  "  who  made  long 
since  a  happy  snatch  at  fame,"  which  must  have  been 
snatched  away  from  him  by  envious  time,  for  I  can 
not  identify  him ;  Thatcher,  who  died  early,  leaving 
one  poem,  The  Last  Request,  not  wholly  unremem- 
bered;  Miss  Hannah  F.  Gould,  a  very  bright  and 
agreeable  writer  of  light  verse,  —  all  these  are  com 
mended  to  the  keeping  of  that  venerable  public  car 
rier,  who  finds  his  scythe  and  hour-glass  such  a  load 
that  he  generally  drops  the  burdens  committed  to  his 
charge,  after  making  a  show  of  paying  every  possible 
attention  to  them  so  long  as  he  is  kept  in  sight. 

It  was  a  good  time  to  open  a  portfolio.  But  my 
old  one  had  boyhood  written  on  every  page.  A  sin 
gle  passionate  outcry  when  the  old  war-ship  I  had 
read  about  in  the  broadsides  that  were  a  part  of  our 
kitchen  literature,  and  in  the  "Naval  Monument," 
was  threatened  with  demolition ;  a  few  verses  sug 
gested  by  the  sight  of  old  Major  Melville  in  his 
cocked  hat  and  breeches,  were  the  best  scraps  that 
came  out  of  that  first  Portfolio,  which  was  soon  closed 
that  it  should  not  interfere  with  the  duties  of  a  profes 
sion  authorized  to  claim  all  the  time  and  thought 
which  would  have  been  otherwise  expended  in  filling  it 


INTRODUCTION.  9 

During  a  quarter  of  a  century  the  first  Portfolio  re 
mained  closed  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time.  Only 
now  and  then  it  would  be  taken  up  and  opened,  and 
something  drawn  from  it  for  a  special  occasion,  more 
particularly  for  the  annual  reunions  of  a  certain  class 
of  which  I  was  a  member. 

In  the  year  1857,  towards  its  close,  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly,"  which  I  had  the  honor  of  naming,  was 
started  by  the  enterprising  firm  of  Phillips  &  Samp 
son,  under  the  editorship  of  Mr.  James  Russell  Lowell. 
He  thought  that  I  might  bring  something  out  of  my 
old  Portfolio  which  would  be  not  unacceptable  in  the 
new  magazine.  I  looked  at  the  poor  old  receptacle, 
which,  partly  from  use  and  partly  from  neglect,  had 
lost  its  freshness,  and  seemed  hardly  presentable  to 
the  new  company  expected  to  welcome  the  new-comer 
in  the  literary  world  of  Boston,  the  least  provincial  of 
American  centres  of  learning  and  letters.  The  gilded 
covering  where  the  emblems  of  hope  and  aspiration 
had  looked  so  bright  had  faded ;  not  wholly,  perhaps, 
but  how  was  the  gold  become  dim !  —  how  was  the 
most  fine  gold  changed  !  Long  devotion  to  other  pur 
suits  had  left  little  time  for  literature,  and  the  waifs 
and  strays  gathered  from  the  old  Portfolio  had  done 
little  more  than  keep  alive  the  memory  that  such  a 
source  of  supply  was  still  in  existence.  I  looked  at  the 
old  Portfolio,  and  said  to  myself,  "  Too  late  !  too  late. 
This  tarnished  gold  will  never  brighten,  these  battered 
covers  will  stand  no  more  wear  and  tear ;  close  them, 
and  leave  them  to  the  spider  and  the  book-worm." 

In  the  mean  time  the  nebula  of  the  first  quarter  of 
the  century  had  condensed  into  the  constellation  of  the 
middle  of  the  same  period.  When,  a  little  while  after 
the  establishment  of  the  new  magazine,  the  "  Saturday 


10  THE  NEW    PORTFOLIO. 

Club  "  gathered  about  the  long  table  at  "  Parker's," 
such  a  representation  of  all  that  was  best  in  American 
literature  had  never  been  collected  within  so  small  a 
compass.  Most  of  the  Americans  whom  educated  for 
eigners  cared  to  see  —  leaving  out  of  consideration 

O  O 

official  dignitaries,  whose  temporary  importance  makes 
them  objects  of  curiosity  —  were  seated  at  that  board. 
But  the  club  did  not  yet  exist,  and  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly "  was  an  experiment.  There  had  already 
been  several  monthly  periodicals,  more  or  less  success 
ful  and  permanent,  among  which  "  Putnam's  Maga 
zine  "  was  conspicuous,  owing  its  success  largely  to  the 
contributions  of  that  very  accomplished  and  delightful 
writer,  Mr.  George  William  Curtis.  That  magazine, 
after  a  somewhat  prolonged  and  very  honorable  exist 
ence,  had  gone  where  all  periodicals  go  when  they 
die,  into  the  archives  of  the  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind 
recording  angel  whose  name  is  Oblivion.  It  had  so 
well  deserved  to  live  that  its  death  was  a  surprise  and 
a  source  of  regret.  Could  another  monthly  take  its 
place  and  keep  it  when  that,  with  all  its  attractions 
and  excellences,  had  died  out,  and  left  a  blank  in  our 
periodical  literature  which  it  would  be  very  hard  to 
fill  as  well  as  that  had  filled  it  ? 

This  was  the  experiment  which  the  enterprising 
publishers  ventured  upon,  and  I,  who  felt  myself  out 
side  of  the  charmed  circle  drawn  around  the  scholars 
and  poets  of  Cambridge  and  Concord,  having  given 
myself  to  other  studies  and  duties,  wondered  some 
what  when  Mr.  Lowell  insisted  upon  my  becoming  a 
contributor.  And  so,  yielding  to  a  pressure  which  I 
could  not  understand,  and  yet  found  myself  unable  to 
resist,  I  promised  to  take  a  part  in  the  new  venture, 
as  an  occasional  writer  in  the  columns  of  the  new  mag 
azine. 


INTRODUCTION.  11 

That  was  the  way  in  which  the  second  Portfolio 
found  its  way  to  my  table,  and  was  there  opened  in 
the  autumn  of  the  year  1857.  I  was  already  at 

least 

Nd  mezzo  del  cammin  di  mia  vita, 

when  I  risked  myself,  with  many  misgivings,  in  little- 
tried  paths  of  what  looked  at  first  like  a  wilderness,  a 
selva  oscura,  where,  if  I  did  not  meet  the  lion  or  the 
wolf,  I  should  be  sure  to  find  the  critic,  the  most  dan 
gerous  of  the  carnivora,  waiting  to  welcome  me  after 
his  own  fashion. 

The  second  Portfolio  is  closed  and  laid  away.  Per 
haps  it  was  hardly  worth  while  to  provide  and  open  a 
new  one ;  but  here  it  lies  before  me,  and  I  hope  I  may 
find  something  between  its  covers  which  will  justify  me 
in  coming  once  more  before  my  old  friends.  But  before 
I  open  it  I  want  to  claim  a  little  further  indulgence. 

There  is  a  subject  of  profound  interest  to  almost 
every  writer,  I  might  say  to  almost  every  human  be 
ing.  No  matter  what  his  culture  or  ignorance,  no . 
matter  what  his  pursuit,  no  matter  what  his  character, 
the  subject  I  refer  to  is  one  of  which  he  rarely  ceases 
to  think,  and,  if  opportunity  is  offered,  to  talk.  On 
this  he  is  eloquent,  if  on  nothing  else.  The  slow  of 
speech  becomes  fluent;  the  torpid  listener  becomes 
electric  with  vivacity,  and  alive  all  over  with  interest. 

The  sagacious  reader  knows  well  what  is  coming 
after  this  prelude.  He  is  accustomed  to  the  phrases 
with  which  the  plausible  visitor,  who  has  a  subscrip 
tion  book  in  his  pocket,  prepares  his  victim  for  the 
depressing  disclosure  of  his  real  errand.  He  is  not 
unacquainted  with  the  conversational  amenities  of  the 
cordial  and  interesting  stranger,  who,  having  had  the 


12  THE  NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

misfortune  of  leaving  his  carpet-bag  in  the  cars,  or  of 
having  his  pocket  picked  at  the  station,  finds  himself 
without  the  means  of  reaching  that  distant  home  where 
affluence  waits  for  him  with  its  luxurious  welcome,  but 
to  whom  for  the  moment  the  loan  of  some  five  and 
twenty  dollars  would  be  a  convenience  and  a  favor  for 
which  his  heart  would  ache  with  gratitude  during  the 
brief  interval  between  the  loan  and  its  repayment. 

I  wish  to  say  a  few  words  in  my  own  person  relating 
to  some  passages  in  my  own  history,  and  more  espe 
cially  to  some  of  the  recent  experiences  through  which 
I  have  been  passing. 

What  can  justify  one  in  addressing  himself  to  the 
general  public  as  if  it  were  his  private  correspondent  ? 
There  are  at  least  three  sufficient  reasons :  first,  if  he 
has  a  story  to  tell  that  everybody  wants  to  hear,  —  if 
he  has  been  shipwrecked,  or  has  been  in  a  battle,  or 
has  witnessed  any  interesting  event,  and  can  tell  any 
thing  new  about  it ;  secondly,  if  he  can  put  in  fitting 
words  any  common  experiences  not  already  well  told, 
so  that  readers  will  say,  "  Why,  yes  !  I  have  had  that 
sensation,  thought,  emotion,  a  hundred  times,  but  I 
never  heard  it  spoken  of  before,  and  I  never  saw  any 
mention  of  it  in  print ; "  and  thirdly,  anything  one 
likes,  provided  he  can  so  tell  it  as  to  make  it  inter 
esting. 

I  have  no  story  to  tell  in  this  Introduction  which 
can  of  itself  claim  any  general  attention.  My  first 
pages  relate  the  effect  of  a  certain  literary  experience 
upon  myself,  —  a  series  of  partial  metempsychoses  of 
which  I  have  been  the  subject!  Next  follows  a  brief 
tribute  to  the  memory  of  a  very  dear  and  renowned 
friend  from  whom  I  have  recently  been  parted.  The 
rest  of  the  Introduction  will  be  consecrated  to  the 
memory  of  my  birthplace. 


INTRODUCTION.  13 

I  have  just  finished  a  Memoir,  which  will  appear 
soon  after  this  page  is  written,  and  will  have  been  the 
subject  of  criticism  long  before  it  is  in  the  reader's 
hands.  The  experience  of  thinking  another  man's 
thoughts  continuously  for  a  long  time ;  of  living  one's 
self  into  another  man's  life  for  a  month,  or  a  year,  or 
more,  is  a  very  curious  one.  No  matter  how  much 
superior  to  the  biographer  his  subject  may  be,  the 
man  who  writes  the  life  feels  himself,  in  a  certain 
sense,  on  the  level  of  the  person  whose  life  he  is 
writing:.  One  cannot  fight  over  the  battles  of  Ma- 

O  C3 

rengo  or  Austerlitz  with  Napoleon  without  feeling  as 
if  he  himself  had  a  fractional  claim  to  the  victory,  so 
real  seems  the  transfer  of  his  personality  into  that  of 
the  conqueror  while  he  reads.  Still  more  must  this 
identification  of  "  subject "  and  "  object  "  take  place 
when  one  is  writing  of  a  person  whose  studies  or  occu 
pations  are  not  unlike  his  own. 

Here  are  some  of  my  metempsychoses  :  — 

Ten  years  ago  I  wrote  what  I  called  A  Memorial 
Outline  of  a  remarkable  student  of  nature.  He  was 
a  born  observer,  and  such  are  far  from  common.  He 
was  also  a  man  of  great  enthusiasm  and  unwearying 
industry.  His  quick  eye  detected  what  others  passed 
by  without  notice :  the  Indian  relic,  where  another 
would  see  only  pebbles  and  fragments  ;  the  rare  mol- 
lusk,  or  reptile,  which  his  companion  would  poke  with 
his  cane,  never  suspecting  that  there  was  a  prize  at 
the  end  of  it.  Getting  his  single  facts  together  with 
marvellous  sagacity  and  long-breathed  patience,  he  ar 
ranged  them,  classified  them,  described  them,  studied 
them  in  their  relations,  and  before  those  around  him 
were  aware  of  it  the  collector  was  an  accomplished 


14  THE  NEW  PORTFOLIO. 

naturalist.  When  he  died  his  collections  remained, 
and  they  still  remain,  as  his  record  in  the  hieratic  lan 
guage  of  science.  In  writing  this  memoir  the  spirit 
of  his  quiet  pursuits,  the  even  temper  they  bred  in 
him,  gained  possession  of  my  own  mind,  so  that  I 
seemed  to  look  at  nature  through  his  gold-bowed  spec 
tacles,  and  to  move  about  his  beautifully  ordered  mu 
seum  as  if  I  had  myself  prepared  and  arranged  its 
specimens.  I  felt  wise  with  his  wisdom,  fair-minded 
with  his  calm  impartiality ;  it  seemed  as  if  for  the  time 
his  placid,  observant,  inquiring,  keen-sighted  nature 
"  slid  into  my  soul,"  and  if  I  had  looked  at  myself  in 
the  glass  I  should  almost  have  expected  to  see  the 
image  of  the  Hersey  professor  whose  life  and  char 
acter  I  was  sketching. 

A  few  years  later  I  lived  over  the  life  of  another 
friend  in  writing  a  Memoir  of  which  he  was  the  sub 
ject.  I  saw  him,  the  beautiful,  bright-eyed  boy,  with 
dark,  waving  hair ;  the  youthful  scholar,  first  at  Har 
vard,  then  at  Gottingen  and  Berlin,  the  friend  and 
companion  of  Bismarck ;  the  young  author,  making 
a  dash  for  renown  as  a  novelist,  and  showing  the 
elements  which  made  his  failures  the  promise  of  suc 
cess  in  a  larger  field  of  literary  labor;  the  delving 
historian,  burying  his  fresh  young  manhood  in  the 
dusty  alcoves  of  silent  libraries,  to  come  forth  in  the 
face  of  Europe  and  America  as  one  of  the  leading 
historians  of  the  time ;  the  diplomatist,  accomplished, 
of  captivating  presence  and  manners,  an  ardent  Amer 
ican,  and  in  the  time  of  trial  an  impassioned  and  elo 
quent  advocate  of  the  cause  of  freedom ;  reaching  at 
last  the  summit  of  his  ambition  as  minister  at  the 
Court  of  Saint  James.  All  this  I  seemed  to  share 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

with  him  as  I  tracked  his  career  from  his  birthplace 
in  Dorchester,  and  the  house  in  Walnut  Street  where 
he  passed  his  boyhood,  to  the  palaces  of  Vienna  and 
London.  And  then  the  cruel  blow  which  struck  him 
from  the  place  he  adorned ;  the  great  sorrow  that 
darkened  his  later  years ;  the  invasion  of  illness,  a 
threat  that  warned  of  danger,  and  after  a  period  of 
invalidism,  during  a  part  of  which  I  shared  his  most 
intimate  daily  life,  the  sudden,  hardly  unwelcome, 
final  summons.  Did  not  my  own  consciousness  mi 
grate,  or  seem,  at  least,  to  transfer  itself  into  this  bril 
liant  life  history,  as  I  traced  its  glowing  record?  I, 
too,  seemed  to  feel  the  delight  of  carrying  with  me,  as 
if  they  were  my  own,  the  charms  of  a  presence  which 
made  its  own  welcome  everywhere.  I  shared  his  he 
roic  toils,  I  partook  of  his  literary  and  social  triumphs, 
I  was  honored  by  the  marks  of  distinction  which  gath 
ered  about  him,  I  was  wronged  by  the  indignity  from 
which  he  suffered,  mourned  with  him  in  his  sorrow, 
and  thus,  after  I  had  been  living  for  months  with  his 
memory,  I  felt  as  if  I  should  carry  a  part  of  his  being 
with  me  so  long  as  my  self -consciousness  might  remain 
imprisoned  in  the  ponderable  elements. 

The  years  passed  away,  and  the  influences  derived 
from  the  companionships  I  have  spoken  of  had  blended 
intimately  with  my  own  current  of  being.  Then  there 
came  to  me  a  new  experience  in  my  relations  with  an 
eminent  member  of  the  medical  profession,  whom  I 
met  habitually  for  a  long  period,  and  to  whose  mem 
ory  I  consecrated  a  few  pages  as  a  prelude  to  a  work 
of  his  own,  written  under  very  peculiar  circumstances. 
He  was  the  subject  of  a  slow,  torturing,  malignant, 
and  almost  necessarily  fatal  disease.  Knowing  well 
that  the  mind  would  feed  upon  itself  if  it  were  not 


16  THE   NEW  PORTFOLIO. 

supplied  with  food  from  without,  he  determined  to 
write  a  treatise  011  a  subject  which  had  greatly  inter 
ested  him,  and  which  would  oblige  him  to  bestow 
much  of  his  time  and  thought  upon  it,  if  indeed  he 
could  hold  out  to  finish  the  work.  During  the  period 
while  he  was  engaged  in  writing  it,  his  wife,  who  had 
seemed  in  perfect  health,  died  suddenly  of  pneumonia. 
Physical  suffering,  mental  distress,  the  prospect  of 
death  at  a  near,  if  uncertain,  time  always  before  him, 
it  was  hard  to  conceive  a  more  terrible  strain  than 
that  which  he  had  to  endure.  When,  in  the  hour  of 
his  greatest  need,  his  faithful  companion,  the  wife  of 
many  years  of  happy  union,  whose  hand  had  smoothed 
his  pillow,  whose  voice  had  consoled  and  cheered  him, 
was  torn  from  him  after  a  few  days  of  illness,  I  felt 
that  my  friend's  trial  was  such  that  the  cry  of  the 
man  of  many  afflictions  and  temptations  might  well 
have  escaped  from  his  lips :  "  I  was  at  ease,  but  he 
hath  broken  me  asunder ;  he  hath  also  taken  me  by 
my  neck  and  shaken  me  to  pieces,  and  set  me  up  for 
his  mark.  His  archers  compass  me  round  about,  he 
cleaveth  my  reins  asunder,  and  doth  not  spare;  he 
poureth  out  my  gall  upon  the  ground." 

I  had  dreaded  meeting  him  for  the  first  time  after 
this  crushing  blow.  What  a  lesson  he  gave  me  of 
patience  under  sufferings  which  the  fearful  description 
of  the  Eastern  poet  does  not  picture  too  vividly !  We 
have  been  taught  to  admire  the  calm  philosophy  of 
Haller,  watching  his  faltering  pulse  as  he  lay  dying ; 
we  have  heard  the  words  of  pious  resignation  said  to 
have  been  uttered  with  his  last  breath  by  Addison: 
but  here  was  a  trial,  not  of  hours,  or  days,  or  weeks, 
but  of  months,  even  years,  of  cruel  pain,  and  in  the 
midst  of  its  thick  darkness  the  light  of  love,  which  had 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

burned  steadily  at  his  bedside,  was  suddenly  extin 
guished. 

There  were  times  in  which  the  thought  would  force 
itself  upon  my  consciousness,  How  long  is  the  uni 
verse  to  look  upon  this  dreadful  experiment  of  a  ma 
larious  planet,  with  its  immeasurable  freight  of  suffer 
ing,  its  poisonous  atmosphere,  so  sweet  to  breathe,  so 
sure  to  kill  in  a  few  scores  of  years  at  farthest,  and  its 
heart-breaking  woes  which  make  even  that  brief  space 
of  time  an  eternity?  There  can  be  but  one  answer 
that  will  meet  this  terrible  question,  which  must  arise 
in  every  thinking  nature  that  would  fain  "justify  the 
ways  of  God  to  men."  So  must  it  be  until  that 

"  one  far-off  divine  event 
To  which  the  whole  creation  moves  " 

has  become  a  reality,  and  the  anthem  in  which  there 
is  no  discordant  note  shall  be  joined  by  a  voice  from 
every  life  made  "  perfect  through  sufferings." 

Such  was  the  lesson  into  which  I  lived  in  those  sad 
yet  placid  years  of  companionship  with  my  suffering 
and  sorrowing  friend,  in  retracing  which  I  seemed  to 
find  another  existence  mingled  with  my  own. 

And  now  for  many  months  I  have  been  living  in 
daily  relations  of  intimacy  with  one  who  seems  nearer 
to  me  since  he  has  left  us  than  while  he  was  here  in 
living  form  and  feature.  I  did  not  know  how  diffi 
cult  a  task  I  had  undertaken  in  venturing  upon  a  mem 
oir  of  a  man  whom  all,  or  almost  all,  agree  upon  as 
one  of  the  great  lights  of  the  New  World,  and  whom 
very  many  regard  as  an  unpredicted  Messiah.  Never 
before  was  I  so  forcibly  reminded  of  Carlyle's  descrip 
tion  of  the  work  of  a  newspaper  editor,  —  that  thresh- 
2 


18  THE   NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

ing  of  straw  already  thrice  beaten  by  the  flails  of  other 
laborers  in  the  same  field.  What  could  be  said  that 
had  not  been  said  of  "  transcendentalism  "  and  of  him 
who  was  regarded  as  its  prophet ;  of  the  poet  whom 
some  admired  without  understanding,  a  few  under 
stood,  or  thought  they  did,  without  admiring,  and 
many  both  understood  and  admired,  —  among  these 
there  being  not  a  small  number  who  went  far  beyond 
admiration,  and  lost  themselves  in  devout  worship  ? 
While  one  exalted  him  as  "  the  greatest  man  that  ever 
lived,"  another,  a  friend,  famous  in  the  world  of  let 
ters,  wrote  expressly  to  caution  me  against  the  dan 
ger  of  overrating  a  writer  whom  he  is  content  to  recog 
nize  as  an  American  Montaigne,  and  nothing  more. 

After  finishing  this  Memoir,  which  has  but  just  left 
my  hands,  I  would  gladly  have  let  my  brain  rest  for 
a  while.  The  wide  range  of  thought  which  belonged 
to  the  subject  of  the  Memoir,  the  occasional  mysticism 
and  the  frequent  tendency  toward  it,  the  sweep  of 
imagination  and  the  sparkle  of  wit  which  kept  his 
reader's  mind  on  the  stretch,  the  union  of  prevailing 
good  sense  with  exceptional  extravagances,  the  mod 
est  audacity  of  a  nature  that  showed  itself  in  its  naked 
truthfulness  and  was  not  ashamed,  the  feeling  that  I 
was  in  the  company  of  a  sibylline  intelligence  which 
was  discounting  the  promises  of  the  remote  future 
long  before  they  were  due,  —  all  this  made  the  task  a 
grave  one.  But  when  I  found  myself  amidst  the  vor 
tices  of  uncounted,  various,  bewildering  judgments, 
Catholic  and  Protestant,  orthodox  and  liberal,  schol 
arly  from  under  the  tree  of  knowledge  and  instinctive 
from  over  the  potato-hill ;  the  passionate  enthusiasm 
of  young  adorers  and  the  cool,  if  not  cynical,  estimate 
of  hardened  critics,  all  intersecting  each  other  as  they 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

whirled,  each  around  its  own  centre,  I  felt  that  it  was 
indeed  very  difficult  to  keep  the  faculties  clear  and 
the  judgment  unbiassed. 

It  is  a  great  privilege  to  have  lived  so  long  in  the 
society  of  such  a  man.  "  He  nothing  common  "  said, 
"  or  mean."  He  was  always  the  same  pure  and  high- 
souled  companion.  After  being  with  him  virtue 
seemed  as  natural  to  man  as  its  opposite  did  accord 
ing  to  the  old  theologies.  But  how  to  let  one's  self 
down  from  the  high  level  of  such  a  character  to  one's 
own  poor  standard  ?  I  trust  that  the  influence  of  this 
long  intellectual  and  spiritual  companionship  never 
absolutely  leaves  one  who  has  lived  in  it.  It  may 
come  to  him  in  the  form  of  self-reproach  that  he  falls 
so  far  short  of  the  superior  being  who  has  been  so 
long  the  object  of  his  contemplation.  But  it  also  car 
ries  him  at  times  into  the  other's  personality,  so  that 
he  finds  himself  thinking  thoughts  that  are  not  his 
own,  using  phrases  which  he  has  unconsciously  bor 
rowed,  writing,  it  may  be,  as  nearly  like  his  long- 
studied  original  as  Julio  Romano's  painting  was  like 
Raphael's  ;  and  all  this  with  the  unquestioning  con 
viction  that  he  is  talking  from  his  own  consciousness 
in  his  own  natural  way.  So  far  as  tones  and  expres 
sions  and  habits  which  belonged  to  the  idiosyncrasy  of 
the  original  are  borrowed  by  the  student  of  his  life,  it 
is  a  misfortune  for  the  borrower.  But  to  share  the  in 
most  consciousness  of  a  noble  thinker,  to  scan  one's  self 
in  the  white  light  of  a  pure  and  radiant  soul,  — this  is 
indeed  the  highest  form  of  teaching  and  discipline. 

I  have  written  these  few  memoirs,  and  I  am  grate 
ful  for  all  that  they  have  taught  me.  But  let  me  write 
no  more.  There  are  but  two  biographers  who  can  tell 


20  THE   NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

the  story  of  a  man's  or  a  woman's  life.  One  is  the 
person  himself  or  herself ;  the  other  is  the  Recording 
Angel.  The  autobiographer  cannot  be  trusted  to  tell 
the  whole  truth,  though  he  may  tell  nothing  but  the 
truth,  and  the  Recording  Angel  never  lets  his  book  gc 
out  of  his  own  hands.  As  for  myself,  I  would  say  to 
my  friends,  in  the  Oriental  phrase,  "  Live  forever !  " 
Yes,  live  forever,  and  I,  at  least,  shall  not  have  to 
wrong  your  memories  by  my  imperfect  record  and  un 
satisfying  commentary. 

In  connection  with  these  biographies,  or  memoirs, 
more  properly,  in  which  I  have  written  of  my  departed 
friends,  I  hope  my  readers  will  indulge  me  in  another 
personal  reminiscence.  I  have  just  lost  my  dear  and 
honored  contemporary  of  the  last  century .  A  hun 
dred  years  ago  this  day,  December  13,  1784,  died  the 
admirable  and  ever  to  be  remembered  Dr.  Samuel 
Johnson.  The  year  1709  was  made  ponderous  and 
illustrious  in  English  biography  by  his  birth.  My 
own  humble  advent  to  the  world  of  protoplasm  was  in 
the  year  1809  of  the  present  century.  Summer  was 
just  ending  when  those  four  letters,  "  son  b."  were 
written  under  the  date  of  my  birth,  August  29th. 
Autumn  had  just  begun  when  my  great  pre-contem- 
porary  entered  this  un-Christian  universe  and  was  made 
a  member  of  the  Christian  church  on  the  same  day,  for 
he  was  born  and  baptized  on  the  18th  of  September. 

Thus  there  was  established  a  close  bond  of  relation 
ship  between  the  great  English  scholar  and  writer  and 
myself.  Year  by  year,  and  almost  month  by  month, 
my  life  has  kept  pace  in  this  century  with  his  life  in 
the  last  century.  1  had  only  to  open  my  Boswell  at 
any  time,  and  I  knew  just  what  Johnson  at  my  age, 


INTRODUCT»N.  21 

twenty  or  fifty  or  seventy,  was  thinking  and  doing; 
what  were  his  feelings  about  life ;  what  changes  the 
years  had  wrought  in  his  body,  his  mind,  his  feel 
ings,  his  companionships,  his  reputation.  It  was  for 
me  a  kind  of  unison  between  two  instruments,  both 
playing  that  old  familiar  air,  "  Life,"  —  one  a  bassoon, 
if  you  will,  and  the  other  an  oaten  pipe,  if  you  care  to 
find  an  image  for  it,  but  still  keeping  pace  with  each 
other  until  the  players  both  grew  old  and  gray.  At 
last  the  thinner  thread  of  sound  is  heard  by  itself,  and 
its  deep  accompaniment  rolls  out  its  thunder  no  more. 
I  feel  lonely  now  that  my  great  companion  and 
friend  of  so  many  years  has  left  me.  I  felt  more  inti 
mately  acquainted  with  him  than  I  do  with  many  of 
my  living  friends.  I  can  hardly  remember  when  I  did 
not  know  him.  I  can  see  him  in  his  bushy  wig,  ex 
actly  like  that  of  the  Reverend  Dr.  Samuel  Cooper 
(who  died  in  December,  1783)  as  Copley  painted  him, 
—  he  hangs  there  on  my  wall,  over  the  revolving  book 
case.  His  ample  coat,  too,  I  see,  with  its  broad  flaps 
and  many  buttons  and  generous  cuffs,  and  beneath  it 
the  long,  still  more  copiously  buttoned  waistcoat,  arch 
ing  in  front  of  the  fine  crescentic,  almost  semi-lunar 
Falstaffian  prominence,  involving  no  less  than  a  dozen 
of  the  above-mentioned  buttons,  and  the  strong  legs 
with  their  sturdy  calves,  fitting  columns  of  support  to 
the  massive  body  and  solid,  capacious  brain  enthroned 
over  it.  I  can  hear  him  with  his  heavy  tread  as  he 
comes  in  to  the  Club,  and  a  gap  is  widened  to  make 
room  for  his  portly  figure.  "  A  fine  day,"  says  Sir 
Joshua.  "  Sir,"  he  answers,  "  it  seems  propitious,  but 
the  atmosphere  is  humid  and  the  skies  are  nebulous," 
at  which  the  great  painter  smiles,  shifts  his  trumpet, 
and  takes  a  pinch  of  snuff. 


22  THE  I\V   PORTFOLIO. 


Dear  old  massive,  deep-voiced  dogmatist  and  hypo 
chondriac  of  the  eighteenth  century,  how  one  would 
like  to  sit  at  some  ghostly  Club,  between  you  and  the 
bony,  "  mighty-mouthed,"  harsh-toned  termagant  and 
dyspeptic  of  the  nineteenth  !  The  growl  of  the  Eng 
lish  mastiff  and  the  snarl  of  the  Scotch  terrier  would 
make  a  duet  which  would  enliven  the  shores  of  Lethe. 
I  wish  I  could  find  our  "  spiritualist's  "  paper  in  the 
Portfolio,  in  which  the  two  are  brought  together,  but  I 
hardly  know  what  I  shall  find  when  it  is  opened. 

Yes,  my  life  is  a  little  less  precious  to  me  since  I 
have  lost  that  dear  old  friend  ;  and  when  the  funeral 
train  moves  to  Westminster  Abbey  next  Saturday,  — 
for  I  feel  as  if  this  were  1784,  and  not  1884,  —  I  seem 
to  find  myself  following  the  hearse,  one  of  the  silent 
mourners. 

Among  the  events  which  have  rendered  the  past 
year  memorable  to  me  has  been  the  demolition  of  that 
venerable  and  interesting  old  dwelling-house,  precious 
for  its  intimate  association  with  the  earliest  stages  of 
the  war  of  the  Revolution,  and  sacred  to  me  as  my 
birthplace  and  the  home  of  my  boyhood. 

The  "  Old  Gambrel-roofed  House  "  exists  no  longer. 
I  remember  saying  something,  in  one  of  a  series  of  pa 
pers  published  long  ago,  about  the  experience  of  dying 
out  of  a  house,  —  of  leaving  it  forever,  as  the  soul  dies 
out  of  the  body.  We  may  die  out  of  many  houses, 
but  the  house  itself  can  die  but  once  ;  and  so  real  is 
the  life  of  a  house  to  one  who  has  dwelt  in  it,  more 
especially  the  life  of  the  house  which  held  him  in 
dreamy  infancy,  in  restless  boyhood,  in  passionate 
youth,  —  so  real,  I  say,  is  its  life,  that  it  seems  as  if 
something  like  a  soul  of  it  must  outlast  its  perishing 
frame. 


INTKODUCTION.  23 

The  slaughter  of  the  Old  Gambrel-roofed  House 
was,  I  am  ready  to  admit,  a  case  of  justifiable  domi- 
cide.  Not  the  less  was  it  to  be  deplored  by  all  who 
love  the  memories  of  the  past.  With  its  destruction 
are  obliterated  some  of  the  footprints  of  the  heroes  and 
martyrs  who  took  the  first  steps  in  the  long  and  bloody 
march  which  led  us  through  the  wilderness  to  the  prom 
ised  land  of  independent  nationality.  Personally,  I 
have  a  right  to  mourn  for  it  as  a  part  of  my  life 
gone  from  me.  My  private  grief  for  its  loss  would  be 
a  matter  for  my  solitary  digestion,  were  it  not  that  the 
experience  through  which  I  have  just  passed  is  one  so 
familiar  to  my  fellow-countrymen  that,  in  telling  my 
own  reflections  and  feelings,  I  am  repeating  those  of 
great  numbers  of  men  and  women  who  have  had  the 
misfortune  to  outlive  their  birthplace. 

It  is  a  great  blessing  to  be  born  surrounded  by  a 
natural  horizon.  The  Old  Gambrel-roofed  House 
could  not  boast  an  unbroken  ring  of  natural  objects 
encircling  it.  Northerly  it  looked  upon  its  own  out 
buildings  and  some  unpretending  two-story  houses 
which  had  been  its  neighbors  for  a  century  and  more. 
To  the  south  of  it  the  square  brick  dormitories  and  the 
belfried  hall  of  the  university  helped  to  shut  out  the 
distant  view.  But  the  west  windows  gave  a  broad  out 
look  across  the  common,  beyond  which  the  historical 
"  Washington  elm  "  and  two  companions  in  line  with 
it,  spread  their  leaves  in  summer  and  their  networks  in 
winter.  And  far  away  rose  the  hills  that  bounded  the 
view,  with  the  glimmer  here  and  there  of  the  white 
walls  or  the  illuminated  casements  of  some  embowered, 
half-hidden  villa.  Eastwardly  also,  the  prospect  was, 
in  my  earlier  remembrance,  widely  open,  and  I  have 
frequently  seen  the  sunlit  sails  gliding  along  as  if 


24  THE  NEW  PORTFOLIO. 

through  the  level  fields,  for  no  water  was  visible.  So 
there  were  broad  expanses  on  two  sides  at  least,  for  my 
imagination  to  wander  over. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  that  we  carry  our  childhood's 
horizon  with  us  all  our  days.  Among  these  western 
wooded  hills  my  day-dreams  built  their  fairy  palaces, 
and  even  now,  as  I  look  at  them  from  my  library  win 
dow,  across  the  estuary  of  the  Charles,  I  find  myself  in 
the  familiar  home  of  my  early  visions.  The  "  clouds 
of  glory  "  which  we  trail  with  us  in  after  life  need  not 
be  traced  to  a  pre-natal  state.  There  is  enough  to  ac 
count  for  them  in  that  unconsciously  remembered  pe 
riod  of  existence  before  we  have  learned  the  hard  lim 
itations  of  real  life.  Those  earliest  months  in  which 
we  lived  in  sensations  without  words,  and  ideas  not  fet 
tered  in  sentences,  have  all  the  freshness  of  proofs  of 
an  engraving  "  before  the  letter."  I  am  very  thank 
ful  that  the  first  part  of  my  life  was  not  passed  shut  in 
between  high  walls  and  treading  the  unimpressible  and 
unsympathetic  pavement. 

Our  university  town  was  very  much  like  the  real 
country,  in  those  days  of  which  I  am  thinking.  There 
were  plenty  of  huckleberries  and  blueberries  within 
half  a  mile  of  the  house.  Blackberries  ripened  in  the 
fields,  acorns  and  shagbarks  dropped  from  the  trees, 
squirrels  ran  among  the  branches,  and  not  rarely  the 
hen-hawk  might  be  seen  circling  over  the  barnyard. 
Still  another  rural  element  was  not  wanting,  in  the 
form  of  that  far-diffused,  infragrant  effluvium,  which, 
diluted  by  a  good  half  mile  of  pure  atmosphere,  is  no 
longer  odious,  nay  is  positively  agreeable,  to  many 
who  have  long  known  it,  though  its  source  and  centre 
has  an  unenviable  reputation.  I  need  not  name  the 
animal  whose  Parthian  warfare  teirifies  and  puts  to 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

flight  the  mightiest  hunter  that  ever  roused  the  tiger 
from  his  jungle  or  faced  the  lion  of  the  desert.  Strange 
as  it  may  seem,  an  aerial  hint  of  his  personality  in  the 
far  distance  always  awakens  in  my  mind  pleasant  re 
membrances  and  tender  reflections.  A  whole  neigh 
borhood  rises  up  before  me :  the  barn,  with  its  hay 
mow,  where  the  hens  laid  their  eggs  to  hatch,  and  we 
boys  hid  our  apples  to  ripen,  both  occasionally  illus 
trating  the  sic  vos  non  vobis  ;  the  shed,  where  the  an 
nual  Tragedy  of  the  Pig  was  acted  with  a  realism  that 
made  Salvini's  Othello  seem  but  a  pale  counterfeit; 
the  rickety  old  outhouse,  with  the  "  corn-chamber " 
which  the  mice  knew  so  well ;  the  paved  yard,  with  its 
open  gutter,  —  these  and  how  much  else  come  up  at 
the  hint  of  my  far-off  friend,  who  is  my  very  near  en 
emy.  Nothing  is  more  familiar  than  the  power  of 
smell  in  reviving  old  memories.  There  was  that  quite 
different  fragrance  of  the  wood-house,  the  smell  of 
fresh  sawdust.  It  comes  back  to  me  now,  and  with  it 
the  hiss  of  the  saw  ;  the  tumble  of  the  divorced  logs 
which  God  put  together  and  man  has  just  put  asunder ; 
the  coming  down  of  the  axe  and  the  hah !  that  helped 
it,  —  the  straight-grained  stick  opening  at  the  first  ap 
peal  of  the  implement  as  if  it  were  a  pleasure,  and  the 
stick  with  a  knot  in  the  middle  of  it  that  mocked  the 
blows  and  the  hahs !  until  the  beetle  and  wedge  made 
it  listen  to  reason,  —  there  are  just  such  straight- 
grained  and  just  such  knotty  men  and  women.  All 
this  passes  through  my  mind  while  Biddy,  whose  par 
lor-name  is  Angela,  contents  herself  with  exclaiming 
"  eVli !  *  *****  *  *****  <  " 

How  different  distances  were  in  those  young  days 
of  which  I  am  thinking !  From  the  old  house  to  the 
old  yellow  meeting-house,  where  the  head  of  the  fam- 


26  THE  NEW  PORTFOLIO. 

ily  preached  and  the  limbs  of  the  family  listened,  was 
not  much  more  than  two  or  three  times  the  width  of 
Commonwealth  Avenue.  But  of  a  hot  summer's  after 
noon,  after  having  already  heard  one  sermon,  which 
could  not  in  the  nature  of  things  have  the  charm  of 
novelty  of  presentation  to  the  members  of  the  home 
circle,  and  the  theology  of  which  was  not  too  clear  to 
tender  apprehensions ;  with  three  hymns  more  or  less 
lugubrious,  rendered  by  a  village-choir,  got  into  voice 
by  many  preliminary  snuffles  and  other  expiratory 
efforts,  and  accompanied  by  the  snort  of  a  huge  bass- 
viol  which  wallowed  through  the  tune  like  a  hippo 
potamus,  with  other  exercises  of  the  customary  char 
acter, —  after  all  this  in  the  forenoon,  the  afternoon 
walk  to  the  meeting-house  in  the  hot  sun  counted  for 
as  much,  in  my  childish  dead-reckoning,  as  from  old 
Israel  Porter's  in  Cambridge  to  the  Exchange  Coffee 
house  in  Boston  did  in  after  years.  It  takes  a  good 
while  to  measure  the  radius  of  the  circle  that  is  about 
us,  for  the  moon  seems  at  first  as  near  as  the  watch- 
face.  Who  knows  but  that,  after  a  certain  number  of 
ages,  the  planet  we  live  on  may  seem  to  us  no  bigger 
than  our  neighbor  Venus  appeared  when  she  passed 
before  the  sun  a  few  months  ago,  looking  as  if  we 
could  take  her  between  our  thumb  and  finger,  like  a 
bullet  or  a  marble  ?  And  time,  too ;  how  long  was  it 
from  the  serious  sunrise  to  the  joyous  "  sun-down  "  of 
an  old-fashioned,  puritanical,  judaical  first  day  of  the 
week,  which  a  pious  fraud  christened  "  the  Sabbath  "  ? 
Was  it  a  fortnight,  as  we  now  reckon  duration,  or 
only  a  week?  [Curious  entities,  or  non-entities,  space 
and  time  ?  When  you  see  a  metaphysician  trying  to 
wash  his  hands  of  them  and  get  rid  of  these  accidents, 
so  as  to  lay  his  dry,  clean  palm  on  the  absolute,  does 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

it  not  remind  you  of  the  hopeless  task  of  changing  the 
color  of  the  blackamoor  by  a  similar  proceeding  ?  For 
space  is  the  fluid  in  which  he  is  washing,  and  time  is 
the  soap  which  he  is  using  up  in  the  process,  and  he 
cannot  get  free  from  them  until  he  can  wash  himself 
in  a  mental  vacuum.] 

In  my  reference  to  the  old  house  in  a  former  paper, 
published  years  ago,  I  said,  — 

"  By  and  by  the  stony  foot  of  the  great  University 
will  plant  itself  on  this  whole  territory,  and  the  pri 
vate  recollections  which  clung  so  tenaciously  to  the 
place  and  its  habitations  will  have  died  with  those  who 
cherished  them." 

What  strides  the  great  University  has  taken  since 
those  words  were  written  !  During  all  my  early  years 
our  old  Harvard  Alma  Mater  sat  still  and  lifeless  as 
the  colossi  in  the  Egyptian  desert.  Then  all  at  once, 
like  the  statue  in  Don  Giovanni,  she  moved  from  her 
pedestal.  The  fall  of  that  "  stony  foot  "  has  effected 
a  miracle  like  the  harp  that  Orpheus  played,  like  the 
teeth  which  Cadmus  sowed.  The  plain  where  the 
moose  and  the  bear  were  wandering  while  Shakespeare 
was  writing  Hamlet,  where  a  few  plain  dormitories 
and  other  needed  buildings  were  scattered  about  in 
my  school-boy  days,  groans  under  the  weight  of  the 
massive  edifices  which  have  sprung  up  all  around 
them,  crowned  by  the  tower  of  that  noble  structure 
which  stands  in  full  view  before  me  as  I  lift  my  eyes 
from  the  portfolio  on  the  back  of  which  I  am  now 
writing. 

For  I  must  be  permitted  to  remind  you  that  I  have 
not  yet  opened  it.  I  have  told  you  that  I  have  just 
finished  a  long  memoir,  and  that  it  has  cost  me  no 
little  labor  to  overcome  some  of  its  difficulties,  —  if 


28  THE  NEW  PORTFOLIO. 

I  have  overcome  them,  which  others  must  decide. 
And  I  feel  exactly  as  honest  Dobbin  feels  when  his 
harness  is  slipped  off  after  a  long  journey  with  a  good 
deal  of  up-hill  work.  He  wants  to  rest  a  little,  then 
to  feed  a  little ;  then,  if  you  will  turn  him  loose  in 
the  pasture,  he  wants  to  roll.  I  have  left  my  starry 
and  ethereal  companionship,  —  not  for  a  long  time,  I 
hope,  for  it  has  lifted  me  above  my  common  self,  but 
for  a  while.  And  now  I  want,  so  to  speak,  to  roll  in 
the  grass  and  among  the  dandelions  with  the  other 
pachyderms.  So  I  have  kept  to  the  outside  of  the 
portfolio  as  yet,  and  am  disporting  myself  in  reminis 
cences,  and  fancies,  and  vagaries,  and  parentheses. 

How  well  I  understand  the  feeling  which  led  the 
Pisans  to  load  their  vessels  with  earth  from  the  Holy 
Land,  and  fill  the  area  of  the  Campo  Santo  with  that 
sacred  soil !  The  old  house  stood  upon  about  as  per 
verse  a  little  patch  of  the  planet  as  ever  harbored  a 
half-starved  earth-worm.  It  was  as  sandy  as  Sahara 
and  as  thirsty  as  Tantalus.  The  rustic  aid-de-camps 
of  the  household  used  to  aver  that  all  fertilizing  mat 
ters  "  leached  "  through  it.  I  tried  to  disprove  their 
assertion  by  gorging  it  with  the  best  of  terrestrial 
nourishment,  until  I  became  convinced  that  I  was 
feeding  the  tea-plants  of  China,  and  then  I  gave  over 
the  attempt.  And  yet  I  did  love,  and  do  love,  that 
arid  patch  of  ground.  I  wonder  if  a  single  flower 
could  not  be  made  to  grow  in  a  pot  of  earth  from  that 
Campo  Santo  of  my  childhood !  One  noble  product 
of  nature  did  not  refuse  to  flourish  there,  —  the  tall, 
stately,  beautiful,  soft-haired,  many-jointed,  generous 
maize  or  Indian  corn,  which  thrives  on  sand  and  de 
fies  the  blaze  of  our  shrivelling  summer.  What  child 
but  loves  to  wander  in  its  forest-like  depths,  amidst 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

the  rustling  leaves  and  with  the  lofty  tassels  tossing 
their  heads  high  above  him !  There  are  two  aspects 
of  the  cornfield  which  always  impress  my  imagination : 
the  first  when  it  has  reached  its  full  growth,  and  its 
ordered  ranks  look  like  an  army  on  the  march  with  its 
plumed  and  bannered  battalions ;  the  second  when, 
after  the  battle  of  the  harvest,  the  girdled  stacks 
stand  on  the  field  of  slaughter  like  so  many  ragged 
Niobes,  —  say  rather  like  the  crazy  widows  and  daugh 
ters  of  the  dead  soldiery. 

Once  more  let  us  come  back  to  the  old  house.  Ifc 
was  far  along  in  its  second  century  when  the  edict 
went  forth  that  it  must  stand  no  longer. 

The  natural  death  of  a  house  is  very  much  like  that 
of  one  of  its  human  tenants.  The  roof  is  the  first 
part  to  show  the  distinct  signs  of  age.  Slates  and 
tiles  loosen  and  at  last  slide  off,  and  leave  bald  the 
boards  that  supported  them ;  shingles  darken  and  de 
cay,  and  soon  the  garret  or  the  attic  lets  in  the  rain 
and  the  snow;  by  and  by  the  beams  sag,  the  floors 
warp,  the  walls  crack,  the  paper  peels  away,  the  ceil 
ings  scale  off  and  fall,  the  windows  are  crusted  with 
clinging  dust,  the  doors  drop  from  their  rusted  hinges, 
the  winds  come  in  without  knocking  and  howl  their 
cruel  death-songs  through  the  empty  rooms  and  pas 
sages,  and  at  last  there  comes  a  crash,  a  great  cloud  of 
dust  rises,  and  the  home  that  had  been  the  shelter  of 
generation  after  generation  finds  its  grave  in  its  own 
cellar.  Only  the  chimney  remains  as  its  monument. 
Slowly,  little  by  little,  the  patient  solvents  that  find 
nothing  too  hard  for  their  chemistry  pick  out  the  mor 
tar  from  between  the  bricks ;  at  last  a  mighty  wind 
roars  around  it  and  rushes  against  it,  and  the  monu 
mental  relic  crashes  down  among  the  wrecks  it  has 


30  THE  NEW   POBTFOLIO. 

long  survived.  So  dies  a  human  habitation  left  to 
natural  decay,  all  that  was  seen  above  the  surface  of 
the  soil  sinking  gradually  below  it, 

Till  naught  remains  the  saddening  tale  to  tell 
Save  home's  last  wrecks,  the  cellar  and  the  well. 

But  if  this  sight  is  saddening,  what  is  it  to  see  a 
human  dwelling  fall  by  the  hand  of  violence !  The 
ripping  off  of  the  shelter  that  has  kept  out  a  thousand 
storms,  the  tearing  off  of  the  once  ornamental  wood 
work,  the  wrench  of  the  inexorable  crowbar,  the  mur 
derous  blows  of  the  axe,  the  progressive  ruin,  which 
ends  by  rending  all  the  joints  asunder  and  flinging  the 
tenoned  and  mortised  timbers  into  heaps  that  will  be 
sawed  and  split  to  warm  some  new  habitation  as  fire 
wood,  —  what  a  brutal  act  of  destruction  it  seems ! 

Why  should  I  go  over  the  old  house  again,  having 
already  described  it  more  than  ten  years  ago  ?  Alas ! 
how  many  remember  anything  they  read  but  once,  and 
so  long  ago  as  that?  How  many  would  find  it  out 
if  one  should  say  over  in  the  same  words  that  which 
he  said  in  the  last  decade  ?  But  there  is  really  no 
need  of  telling  the  story  a  second  time,  for  it  can  be 
found  by  those  who  are  curious  enough  to  look  it  up 
in  a  volume  of  which  it  occupies  the  opening  chapter. 

In  order,  however,  to  save  any  inquisitive  reader  that 
trouble,  let  me  remind  him  that  the  old  house  was 
General  Ward's  headquarters  at  the  breaking  out  of 
the  Revolution  ;  that  the  plan  for  fortifying  Bunker's 
Hill  was  laid,  as  commonly  believed,  in  the  southeast 
lower  room,  the  floor  of  which  was  covered  with  dents, 
made,  it  was  alleged,  by  the  butts  of  the  soldiers' 
muskets.  In  that  house,  too,  General  Warren  proba« 
bly  passed  the  night  before  the  Bunker  Hill  battle, 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

and   over   its   threshold   must   the   stately   figure   of 
Washington  have  often  cast  its  shadow. 

But  the  house  in  which  one  drew  his  first  breath, 
and  where  he  one  day  carne  into  the  consciousness  that 
he  was  a  personality,  an  ego,  a  little  universe  with  a 
sky  over  him  all  his  own,  with  a  persistent  identity, 
with  the  terrible  responsibility  of  a  separate,  independ 
ent,  inalienable  existence,  —  that  house  does  not  ask 
for  any  historical  associations  to  make  it  the  centre  of 
the  earth  for  him. 

If  there  is  any  person  in  the  world  to  be  envied,  it 
is  the  one  who  is  born  to  an  ancient  estate,  with  a 
long  line  of  family  traditions  and  the  means  in  his 
hands  of  shaping  his  mansion  and  his  domain  to  his 
own  taste,  without  losing  sight  of  all  the  characteristic 
features  which  surrounded  his  earliest  years.  The 
American  is,  for  the  most  part,  a  nomad,  who  pulls 
down  his  house  as  the  Tartar  pulls  up  his  tent-poles. 
If  I  had  an  ideal  life  to  plan  for  him  it  would  be 
something  like  this :  — 

His  grandfather  should  be  a  wise,  scholarly,  large- 
brained,  large-hearted  country  minister,  from  whom 
he  should  inherit  the  temperament  that  predisposes  to 
cheerfulness  and  enjoyment,  with  the  finer  instincts 
which  direct  life  to  noble  aims  and  make  it  rich  with 
the  gratification  of  pure  and  elevated  tastes  and  the 
carrying  out  of  plans  for  the  good  of  his  neighbors  and 
his  fellow-creatures.  He  should,  if  possible,  have  been 
bom,  at  any  rate  have  passed  some  of  his  early  years, 
or  a  large  part  of  them,  under  tho  roof  of  the  good  old 
minister.  His  father  should  be,  we  will  say,  a  busi 
ness  man  in  one  of  our  great  cities,  —  a  generous  ma 
nipulator  of  millions,  some  of  which  have  adhered  to 
his  private  fortunes,  in  spite  of  his  liberal  use  of  his 


32  THE   NEW   PORTFOLIO. 

means.  His  heii1,  our  ideally  placed  American,  shall 
take  possession  of  the  old  house,  the  home  of  his  ear 
liest  memories,  and  preserve  it  sacredly,  not  exactly 
like  the  Santa  Casa,  but,  as  nearly  as  may  be,  just  as 
he  remembers  it.  He  can  add  as  many  acres  as  he 
will  to  the  narrow  house-lot.  He  can  build  a  grand 
mansion  for  himself,  if  he  chooses,  in  the  not  distant 
neighborhood.  But  the  old  house,  and  all  immediately 
round  it,  shall  be  as  he  recollects  it  when  he  had  to 
stretch  his  little  arm  up  to  reach  the  door-handles. 
Then,  having  well  provided  for  his  own  household, 
himself  included,  let  him  become  the  providence  of  the 
village  or  the  town  where  he  finds  himself  during  at 
least  a  portion  of  every  year.  Its  schools,  its  library, 
its  poor,  —  and  perhaps  the  new  clergyman  who  has 
succeeded  his  grandfather's  successor  may  be  one  of 
them,  —  all  its  interests,  he  shall  make  his  own.  And 
from  this  centre  his  beneficence  shall  radiate  so  far 
that  all  who  hear  of  his  wealth  shall  also  hear  of  him 
as  a  friend  to  his  race. 

Is  not  this  a  pleasing  programme?  Wealth  is  a 
steep  hill,  which  the  father  climbs  slowly  and  the  son 
often  tumbles  down  precipitately ;  but  there  is  a  table 
land  on  a  level  with  it,  which  may  be  found  by  those 
who  do  not  lose  their  head  in  looking  down  from  its 
sharply  cloven  summit.  Our  dangerously  rich  men 
can  make  themselves  hated,  held  as  enemies  of  the 
race,  or  beloved  and  recognized  as  its  benefactors. 
The  clouds  of  discontent  are  threatening,  but  if  the 
gold-pointed  lightning-rods  are  rightly  distributed  the 
destructive  element  may  be  drawn  off  silently  and 
harmlessly.  For  it  cannot  be  repeated  too  often  that 
the  safety  of  great  wealth  with  us  lies  in  obedience  to 
the  new  version  of  the  Old  World  axiom,  RICHESSE 
oblige.  O.  W. 


THE  NEW  PORTFOLIO:   FIRST   OPENING. 

A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 


I. 

GETTING   EEADY. 

IT  is  impossible  to  begin  a  story  which  must  of  ne 
cessity  tax  the  powers  of  belief  of  readers  unacquainted 
with  the  class  of  facts  to  which  its  central  point  of  in 
terest  belongs  without  some  words  in  the  nature  of 
preparation.  Readers  of  Charles  Lamb  remember 
that  Sarah  Battle  insisted  on  a  clean-swept  hearth  be 
fore  sitting  down  to  her  favorite  game  of  whist. 

The  narrator  wishes  to  sweep  the  hearth,  as  it  were, 
in  these  opening  pages,  before  sitting  down  to  tell  his 
story.  He  does  not  intend  to  frighten  the  reader 
away  by  prolix  explanation,  but  he  does  mean  to  warn 
him  against  hasty  judgments  when  facts  are  related 
which  are  not  within  the  range  of  every-day  experience. 
Did  he  ever  see  the  Siamese  twins,  or  any  pair  like 
them?  Probably  not,  yet  he  feels  sure  that  Chang 
and  Eng  really  existed  ;  and  if  he  has  taken  the  trou 
ble  to  inquire,  he  has  satisfied  himself  that  similar 
cases  have  been  recorded  by  credible  witnesses,  though 
at  long  intervals  and  in  countries  far  apart  from  each 
other. 

3 


34  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

This  is  the  first  sweep  of  the  brush,  to  clear  the 
hearth  of  the  skepticism  and  incredulity  which  must 
be  got  out  of  the  way  before  we  can  begin  to  tell  and 
to  listen  in  peace  with  ourselves  and  each  other. 

One  more  stroke  of  the  brush  is  needed  before  the 
stage  will  be  ready  for  the  chief  characters  and  the 
leading  circumstances  to  which  the  reader's  attention 
is  invited.  If  the  principal  personages  made  their  en 
trance  at  once,  the  reader  would  have  to  create  for 
himself  the  whole  scenery  of  their  surrounding  condi 
tions.  In  point  of  fact,  no  matter  how  a  story  is  be 
gun,  many  of  its  readers  have  already  shaped  its  chief 
actors  out  of  any  hint  the  author  may  have  dropped, 
and  provided  from  their  own  resources  a  locality  and 
a  set  of  outward  conditions  to  environ  these  imagined 
personalities.  These  are  all  to  be  brushed  away,  and 
the  actual  surroundings  of  the  subject  of  the  narrative 
represented  as  they  were,  at  the  risk  of  detaining  the 
reader  a  little  while  from  the  events  most  likely  to  in 
terest  him.  The  choicest  egg  that  ever  was  laid  was 
not  so  big  as  the  nest  that  held  it.  If  r,  story  were  so 
interesting  that  a  maiden  would  rather  hear  it  than 
listen  to  the  praise  of  her  own  beauty,  or  a  poet  would 
rather  read  it  than  recite  his  own  verses,  still  it  would 
have  to  be  wrapped  in  some  tissvie  of  circumstance,  or 
it  would  lose  half  its  effectiveness. 

It  may  not  be  easy  to  find  the  exact  locality  referred 
to  in  this  narrative  by  looking  into  the  first  gazetteer 
that  is  at  hand.  Recent  experiences  have  shown  that 
it  is  unsafe  to  be  too  exact  in  designating  places  and 
the  people  who  live  in  them.  There  are,  it  may  be 
added,  so  many  advertisements  disguised  under  the 
form  of  stories  and  other  literary  productions  that  one 
naturally  desires  to  avoid  the  suspicion  of  being  em. 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  35 

ployed  by  the  enterprising  proprietors  of  this  or  that 
celebrated  resort  to  use  his  gifts  for  their  especial  ben 
efit.  There  are  no  doubt  many  persons  who  remem 
ber  the  old  sign  and  the  old  tavern  and  its  four  chief 
personages  presently  to  be  mentioned.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  they  will  not  furnish  the  public  with  a 
key  to  this  narrative,  and  perhaps  bring  trouble  to  the 
writer  of  it,  as  has  happened  to  other  authors.  If  the 
real  names  are  a  little  altered,  it  need  not  interfere 
with  the  important  facts  relating  to  those  who  bear 
them.  It  might  not  be  safe  to  tell  a  damaging  story 
about  John  or  James  Smythe ;  but  if  the  slight  change 
is  made  of  spelling  the  name  Smith,  the  Smythes  would 
never  think  of  bringing  an  action,  as  if  the  allusion 
related  to  any  of  them.  The  same  gulf  of  family  dis 
tinction  separates  the  Thompsons  with  a  p  from  the 
Thomsons  without  that  letter. 

There  are  few  pleasanter  places  in  the  Northern 
States  for  a  summer  residence  than  that  known  from 
the  first  period  of  its  settlement  by  the  name  of  Ar 
rowhead  Village.  The  Indians  had  found  it  out,  as 
the  relics  they  left  behind  them  abundantly  testified. 
The  commonest  of  these  were  those  chipped  stones 
which  are  the  medals  of  barbarism,  and  from  which 
the  place  took  its  name,  —  the  heads  of  arrows,  of 
various  sizes,  material,  and  patterns :  some  small 
enough  for  killing  fish  and  little  birds,  some  large 
enough  for  such  game  as  the  moose  and  the  bear,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  hostile  Indian  and  the  white  settler ; 
some  of  flint,  now  and  then  one  of  white  quartz,  and 
others  of  variously  colored  jasper.  The  Indians  must 
have  lived  here  for  many  generations,  and  it  must  have 
been  a  kind  of  factory  village  of  the  stone  age, — 


36  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

which  lasted  up  to  near  the  present  time,  if  we  may 
judge  from  the  fact  that  many  of  these  relics  are  met 
with  close  to  the  surface  of  the  ground. 

No  wonder  they  found  this  a  pleasant  residence,  for 
it  is  to-day  one  of  the  most  attractive  of  all  summer 
resorts ;  so  inviting,  indeed,  that  those  who  know  it  do 
not  like  to  say  too  much  about  it,  lest  the  swarms  of 
tourists  should  make  it  unendurable  to  those  who  love 
it  for  itself,  and  not  as  a  centre  of  fashionable  display 
and  extra-mural  cockneyism. 

There  is  the  lake,  in  the  first  place,  —  Cedar  Lake, 
—  about  five  miles  long,  and  from  half  a  mile  to  a 
mile  and  a  half  wide,  stretching  from  north  to  south. 
Near  the  northern  extremity  are  the  buildings  of 
Stoughton  University,  a  flourishing  young  college  with 
an  ambitious  name,  but  well  equipped  and  promising, 
the  grounds  of  which  reach  the  water.  At  the  south 
ern  end  of  the  lake  are  the  edifices  of  the  Corinna  In 
stitute,  a  favorite  school  for  young  ladies,  where  large 
numbers  of  the  daughters  of  America  are  fitted,  so  far 
as  education  can  do  it,  for  all  stations  in  life,  from 
camping  out  with  a  husband  at  the  mines  in  Nevada 
to  acting  the  part  of  chief  lady  of  the  land  in  the 
White  House  at  Washington. 

Midway  between  the  two  extremities,  on  the  eastern 
shore  of  the  lake,  is  a  valley  between  two  hills,  which 
come  down  to  the  very  edge  of  the  lake,  leaving  only 
room  enough  for  a  road  between  their  base  and  the 
water.  This  valley,  half  a  mile  in  width,  has  been 
long  settled,  and  here  for  a  century  or  more  has  stood 
the  old  Anchor  Tavern.  A  famous  place  it  was  so 
long  as  its  sign  swung  at  the  side  of  the  road :  famous 
for  its  landlord,  portly,  paternal,  whose  welcome  to  a 
guest  that  looked  worthy  of  the  attention  was  like 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  37 

that  of  a  parent  to  a  returning  prodigal,  and  whose 
parting  words  were  almost  as  good  as  a  marriage  ben 
ediction;  famous  for  its  landlady,  ample  in  person, 
motherly,  seeing  to  the  whole  household  with  her  own 
eyes,  mistress  of  all  culinary  secrets  that  Northern 
kitchens  are  most  proud  of ;  famous  also  for  its  an 
cient  servant,  as  city  people  would  call  her,  —  help,  as 
she  was  called  in  the  tavern  and  would  have  called 
herself,  —  the  unchanging,  seemingly  immortal  Mi 
randa,  who  cared  for  the  guests  as  if  she  were  their 
nursing  mother,  and  pressed  the  specially  favorite  del 
icacies  on  their  attention  as  a  connoisseur  calls  the 
wandering  eyes  of  an  amateur  to  the  beauties  of  a 
picture.  Who  that  has  ever  been  at  the  old  Anchor 
Tavern  forgets  Miranda's 

"A little  of  this  fricassee?  —  it  is  ver-y  nice;" 
or 

"  Some  of  thess  cakes  ?    You  will  find  them  ver-y  good." 

Nor  would  it  be  just  to  memory  to  forget  that  other 
notable  and  noted  member  of  the  household,  —  the 
unsleeping,  unresting,  omnipresent  Pushee,  ready  for 
everybody  and  everything,  everywhere  within  the  lim 
its  of  the  establishment  at  all  hours  of  the  day  and 
night.  He  fed,  nobody  could  say  accurately  when  or 
where.  There  were  rumors  of  a  "  bunk,"  in  which  he 
lay  down  with  his  clothes  on,  but  he  seemed  to  be  al 
ways  wide  awake,  and  at  the  service  of  as  many  guests 
at  once  as  if  there  had  been  half  a  dozen  of  him. 
So  much  for  old  reminiscences. 

The  landlord  of  the  Anchor  Tavern  had  taken  down 
his  sign.  He  had  had  the  house  thoroughly  renovated 
and  furnished  it  anew,  and  kept  it  open  in  summer  for 
a  few  boarders.  It  happened  more  than  once  that  the 


38  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

summer  boarders  were  so  much  pleased  with  the  place 
that  they  stayed  on  through  the  autumn,  and  some  of 
them  through  the  winter.  The  attractions  of  the  vil 
lage  were  really  remarkable.  Boating  in  summer,  and 
skating  in  winter ;  ice-boats,  too,  which  the  wild  ducks 
could  hardly  keep  up  with  ;  fishing,  for  which  the  lake 
was  renowned ;  varied  and  beautiful  walks  through  the 
valley  and  up  the  hillsides ;  houses  sheltered  from  the 
north  and  northeasterly  winds,  and  refreshed  in  the 
hot  summer  days  by  the  breeze  which  came  over  the 
water,  —  all  this  made  the  frame  for  a  pleasing  picture 
of  rest  and  happiness.  But  there  was  a  great  deal 
more  than  this.  There  was  a  fine  library  in  the  little 
village,  presented  and  richly  endowed  by  a  wealthy 
native  of  the  place.  There  was  a  small  permanent 
population  of  a  superior  character  to  that  of  an  every 
day  country  town  ;  there  was  a  pretty  little  Episcopal 
church,  with  a  good-hearted  rector,  broad  enough  for 
the  Bishop  of  the  diocese  to  be  a  little  afraid  of,  and 
hospitable  to  all  outsiders,  of  whom,  in  the  summer 
season,  there  were  always  some  who  wanted  a  place  of 
worship  to  keep  their  religion  from  dying  out  during 
the  heathen  months,  while  the  shepherds  of  the  flocks  to 
which  they  belonged  were  away  from  their  empty  folds. 

What  most  helped  to  keep  the  place  alive  all 
through  the  year  was  the  frequent  coining  together  of 
the  members  of  a  certain  literary  association.  Some 
time  before  the  tavern  took  down  its  sign  the  landlord 
had  built  a  hall,  where  many  a  ball  had  been  held,  to 
which  the  young  folks  of  all  the  country  round  had  re 
sorted.  It  was  still  sometimes  used  for  similar  occa 
sions,  but  it  was  especially  notable  as  being  the  place 
of  meeting  of  the  famous  PANSOPHIAN  SOCIETY. 

This  association,  the  name  of  which  might  be  invid 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  39 

ioitsly  interpreted  as  signifying  that  its  members  knew 
everything,  had  no  such  pretensions,  but,  as  its  Con 
stitution  said  very  plainly  and  modestly,  held  itself 
open  to  accept  knowledge  on  any  and  all  subjects  from 
such  as  had  knowledge  to  impart.  Its  President  was 
the  rector  of  the  little  chapel,  a  man  who,  in  spite  of 
the  Thirty-Nine  Articles,  could  stand  fire  from  the 
widest-mouthed  heretical  blunderbuss  without  flinching 
or  losing  his  temper.  The  hall  of  the  old  Anchor 
Tavern  was  a  convenient  place  of  meeting  for  the  stu 
dents  and  instructors  of  the  University  and  the  Insti 
tute.  Sometimes  in  boat-loads,  sometimes  in  carriage- 
loads,  sometimes  in  processions  of  skaters,  they  came 
to  the  meetings  in  Pansophian  Hall,  as  it  was  now 
commonly  called. 

These  meetings  had  grown  to  be  occasions  of  great 
interest.  It  was  customary  to  have  papers  written  by 
members  of  the  Society,  for  the  most  part,  but  now 
and  then  by  friends  of  the  members,  sometimes  by  tho 
students  of  the  College  or  the  Institute,  and  in  rarer 
instances  by  anonymous  personages,  whose  papers,  hav 
ing  been  looked  over  and  discussed  by  the  Committee 
appointed  for  that  purpose,  were  thought  worth  listen 
ing  to.  The  variety  of  topics  considered  was  very 
great.  The  young  ladies  of  the  village  and  the  Insti 
tute  had  their  favorite  subjects,  the  young  gentlemen  a 
different  set  of  topics,  and  the  occasional  outside  con 
tributors  their  own  ;  so  that  one  who  happened  to  be 
admitted  to  a  meeting  never  knew  whether  he  was  go 
ing  to  hear  an  account  of  recent  arctic  discoveries,  or 
an  essay  on  the  freedom  of  the  will,  or  a  psychological 
experience,  or  a  story,  or  even  a  poem. 

Of  late  there  had  been  a  tendency  to  discuss  tho 
questions  relating  to  the  true  status  and  the  legitimate 


40  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

social  functions  of  woman.  The  most  conflicting 
views  were  held  on  the  subject.  Many  of  the  young 
ladies  and  some  of  the  University  students  were  strong 
in  defence  of  all  the  "woman's  rights"  doctrines. 
Some  of  these  young  people  were  extreme  in  their 
views.  They  had  read  about  Semiramis  and  Boadicea 
and  Queen  Elizabeth,  until  they  were  ready,  if  they 
could  get  the  chance,  to  vote  for  a  woman  as  President 
of  the  United  States  or  as  General  of  the  United 
States  Army.  They  were  even  disposed  to  assert  the 
physical  equality  of  woman  to  man,  on  the  strength  of 
the  rather  questionable  history  of  the  Amazons,  and 
especially  of  the  story,  believed  to  be  authentic,  of  the 
female  body-guard  of  the  King  of  Dahomey,  —  fe 
males  frightful  enough  to  need  no  other  weapon  than 
their  looks  to  scare  off  an  army  of  Cossacks. 

Miss  Lurida  Vincent,  gold  medallist  of  her  year  at 
the  Corinna  Institute,  was  the  leader  of  these  advo 
cates  of  virile  womanhood.  It  was  rather  singular 
that  she  should  have  elected  to  be  the  apostle  of  this 
extreme  doctrine,  for  she  was  herself  far  better 
equipped  with  brain  than  muscles.  In  fact,  she  was 
a  large-headed,  large-eyed,  long-ey clashed,  slender- 
necked,  slightly  developed  young  woman ;  looking  al 
most  like  a  child  at  an  age  when  many  of  the  girls  had 
reached  their  full  stature  and  proportions.  In  her 
studies  she  was  so  far  in  advance  of  her  different 
classes  that  there  was  always  a  wide  gap  between  her 
and  the  second  scholar.  So  fatal  to  all  rivalry  had  she 
proved  herself  that  she  passed  under  the  school  name 
of  TJie  Terror.  She  learned  so  easily  that  she  under 
valued  her  own  extraordinary  gifts,  and  felt  the  deep 
est  admiration  for  those  of  her  friends  endowed  with 
faculties  of  an  entirely  different  and  almost  opposite 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  41 

nature.  After  sitting  at  her  desk  until  her  head  was 
hot  and  her  feet  were  like  ice,  she  would  go  and  look 
at  the  blooming  young  girls  exercising  in  the  gymna 
sium  of  the  school,  and  feel  as  if  she  would  give  all 
her  knowledge,  all  her  mathematics  and  strange 
tongues  and  history,  all  those  accomplishments  that 
made  her  the  encyclopaedia  of  every  class  she  belonged 
to,  if  she  could  go  through  the  series  of  difficult  and 
graceful  exercises  in  which  she  saw  her  schoolmates 
delighting. 

One  among  them,  especially,  was  the  object  of  her 
admiration,  as  she  was  of  all  who  knew  her  exceptional 
powers  in  the  line  for  which  nature  had  specially  or 
ganized  her.  All  the  physical  perfections  which  Miss 
Lurida  had  missed  had  been  united  in  Miss  Euthymia 
Tower,  whose  school  name  was  The  Wonder.  Though 
of  full  womanly  stature,  there  were  several  taller 
girls  of  her  age.  While  all  her  contours  and  all  her 
movements  betrayed  a  fine  muscular  development, 
there  was  no  lack  of  proportion,  and  her  finely  shaped 
hands  and  feet  showed  that  her  organization  was  one 
of  those  carefully  finished  masterpieces  of  nature 
which  sculptors  are  always  in  search  of,  and  find  it 
hard  to  detect  among  the  imperfect  products  of  the 
living  laboratory. 

This  girl  of  eighteen  was  more  famous  than  she 
cared  to  be  for  her  performances  in  the  gymnasium. 
She  commonly  contented  herself  with  the  same  exer 
cises  that  her  companions  were  accustomed  to.  Only 
her  dumb-bells,  with  which  she  exercised  easily  and 
gracefully,  were  too  heavy  for  most  of  the  girls  to  do 
more  with  than  lift  them  from  the  floor.  She  was  fond 
of  daring  feats  on  the  trapeze,  and  had  to  be  checked 
in  her  indulgence  in  them.  The  Professor  of  gymnas- 


42  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tics  at  the  University  came  over  to  the  Institute  now 
and  then,  and  it  was  a  source  of  great  excitement  to 
watch  some  of  the  athletic  exercises  in  which  the  young 
lady  showed  her  remarkable  muscular  strength  and 
skill  in  managing  herself  in  the  accomplishment  of 
feats  which  looked  impossible  at  first  sight.  How 
often  The  Terror  had  thought  to  herself  that  she  would 
gladly  give  up  all  her  knowledge  of  Greek  and  the 
differential  and  integral  calculus  if  she  could  only  per 
form  the  least  of  those  feats  which  were  mere  play  to 
The  Wonder!  Miss  Euthymia  was  not  behind  the 
rest  in  her  attainments  in  classical  or  mathematical 
knowledge,  and  she  was  one  of  the  very  best  students 
in  the  out-door  branches,  —  botany,  mineralogy,  sketch 
ing  from  nature,  —  to  be  found  among  the  scholars  of 
the  Institute. 

There  was  an  eight-oared  boat  rowed  by  a  crew  of 
the  young  ladies,  of  which  Miss  Euthymia  was  the 
captain  and  pulled  the  bow  oar.  Poor  little  Lurida 
could  not  pull  an  oar,  but  on  great  occasions,  when 
there  were  many  boats  out,  she  was  wanted  as  cox 
swain,  being  a  mere  feather-weight,  and  quick-witted 
enough  to  serve  well  in  the  important  office  whero 
brains  are  more  needed  than  muscle. 

There  was  also  an  eight-oared  boat  belonging  to  the 
University,  and  rowed  by  a  picked  crew  of  stalwart 
young  fellows.  The  bow  oar  and  captain  of  the  Uni 
versity  crew  was  a  powerful  young  man,  who,  like  the 
captain  of  the  girls'  boat,  was  a  noted  gymnast.  He 
had  had  one  or  two  quiet  trials  with  Miss  Euthymia, 
in  which,  according  to  the  ultras  of  the  woman's  rights 
party,  he  had  not  vindicated  the  superiority  of  his  sex 
in  the  way  which  might  have  been  expected.  Indeed, 
it  was  claimed  that  he  let  a  cannon-ball  drop  when  he 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  43 

ought  to  have  caught  it,  and  it  was  not  disputed  that 
he  had  been  ingloriously  knocked  over  by  a  sand-bag 
projected  by  the  strong  arms  of  the  young  maiden. 
This  was  of  course  a  story  that  was  widely  told  and 
laughingly  listened  to,  and  the  captain  of  the  Univer 
sity  crew  had  become  a  little  sensitive  on  the  subject. 
When  there  was  a  talk,  therefore,  about  a  race  be 
tween  the  champion  boats  of  the  two  institutions  there 
was  immense  excitement  in  both  of  them,  as  well  as 
among  the  members  of  the  Pansophian  Society  and 
all  the  good  people  of  the  village. 

There  were  many  objections  to  be  overcome.  Some 
thought  it  unladylike  for  the  young  maidens  to  take 
part  in  a  competition  which  must  attract  many  look 
ers-on,  and  which  it  seemed  to  them  very  hoidenish  to 
venture  upon.  Some  said  it  was  a  shame  to  let  a  crew 
of  girls  try  their  strength  against  an  equal  number  of 
powerful  young  men.  These  objections  were  offset  by 
the  advocates  of  the  race  by  the  following  arguments. 
They  maintained  that  it  was  no  more  hoidenish  to 
row  a  boat  than  it  was  to  take  a  part  in  the  calisthenic 
exercises,  and  that  the  girls  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  young  men's  boat,  except  to  keep  as  much  ahead 
of  it  as  possible.  As  to  strength,  the  woman's  right- 
ers  believed  that,  weight  for  weight,  their  crew  was  as 
strong  as  the  other,  and  of  course  due  allowance  would 
be  made  for  the  difference  of  weight  and  all  other  ac 
cidental  hindrances.  It  was  time  to  test  the  boasted 
superiority  of  masculine  muscle.  Here  was  a  chance. 
If  the  girls  beat,  the  whole  country  would  know  it, 
and  after  that  female  suffrage  would  be  only  a  ques 
tion  of  time.  Such  was  the  conclusion,  from  rather 
insufficient  premises,  it  must  be  confessed ;  but  if  na 
ture  does  nothing  per  saltum,  —  by  jumps,  —  as  the 


44  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

old  adage  has  it,  youth  is  very  apt  to  take  long  leaps 
from  a  fact  to  a  possible  sequel  or  consequence.  So 
it  had  come  about  that  a  contest  between  the  two  boat- 
crews  was  looked  forward  to  with  an  interest  almost 
equal  to  that  with  which  the  combat  between  the  Ho- 
ratii  and  Curiatii  was  regarded. 

The  terms  had  been  at  last  arranged  between  the 
two  crews,  after  cautious  protocols  and  many  diplo 
matic  discussions.  It  was  so  novel  in  its  character 
that  it  naturally  took  a  good  deal  of  time  to  adjust  it 
in  such  a  way  as  to  be  fair  to  both  parties.  The 
course  must  not  be  too  long  for  the  lighter  and 
weaker  crew,  for  the  staying  power  of  the  young  per 
sons  who  made  it  up  could  not  be  safely  reckoned 
upon.  A  certain  advantage  must  be  allowed  them  at 
the  start,  and  this  was  a  delicate  matter  to  settle.  The 
weather  was  another  important  consideration.  June 
would  be  early  enough,  in  all  probability,  and  if  the 
lake  should  be  tolerably  smooth  the  grand  affair  might 
come  off  some  time  in  that  month.  Any  roughness 
of  the  water  would  be  unfavorable  to  the  weaker  crew. 
The  rowing-course  was  on  the  eastern  side  of  the  lake, 
the  starting-point  being  opposite  the  Anchor  Tavern  ; 
from  that  three  quarters  of  a  mile  to  the  south,  where 
the  turning-stake  was  fixed,  so  that  the  whole  course 
of  one  mile  and  a  half  would  bring  the  boats  back  to 
their  starting-point. 

The  race  was  to  be  between  the  Algonquin,  eight- 
oared  boat  with  outriggers,  rowed  by  young  men,  stu 
dents  of  Stoughton  University,  and  the  Atalanta,  also 
eight-oared  and  outrigger  boat,  by  young  ladies  from 
the  Corinna  Institute.  Their  boat  was  three  inches 
wider  than  the  other,  for  various  sufficient  reasons, 
one  of  which  was  to  make  it  a  little  less  likely  to  go 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  45 

over  and  throw  its  crew  into  the  water,  which  was  a 
sound  precaution,  though  all  the  girls  could  swim,  and 
one  at  least,  the  bow  oar,  was  a  famous  swimmer,  who 
had  pulled  a  drowning  man  out  of  the  water  after  a 
hard  struggle  to  keep  him  from  carrying  her  down 
with  him. 

Though  the  coming  trial  had  not  been  advertised  in 
the  papers,  so  as  to  draw  together  a  rabble  of  betting 
men  and  ill-conditioned  lookers-on,  there  was  a  consid 
erable  gathering,  made  up  chiefly  of  the  villagers  and 
the  students  of  the  two  institutions.  Among  them 
were  a  few  who  were  disposed  to  add  to  their  interest 
in  the  trial  by  small  wagers.  The  bets  were  rather  in 
favor  of  the  "  Quins,"  as  the  University  boat  was 
commonly  called,  except  where  the  natural  sympathy 
of  the  young  ladies  or  the  gallantry  of  some  of  the 
young  men  led  them  to  risk  their  gloves  or  cigars,  or 
whatever  it  might  be,  on  the  Atalantas.  The  ele 
ments  of  judgment  were  these:  average  weight  of  the 
Algonquin s  one  hundred  and  sixty-five  pounds ;  aver 
age  weight  of  the  Atalantas,  one  hundred  and  forty- 
eight  pounds  ;  skill  in  practice  about  equal ;  advan 
tage  of  the  narrow  boat  equal  to  three  lengths;  whole 
distance  allowed  the  Atalantas  eight  lengths,  —  a  long 
stretch  to  be  made  up  in  a  mile  and  a  half. 

And  so  both  crews  began  practising  for  the  grand 
trial. 


II. 

THE   BOAT-RACE. 

THE  10th  of  June  was  a  delicious  summer  day,  — 
rather  warm,  but  still  and  bright.  The  water  was 
smooth,  and  the  crews  were  in  the  best  possible  condi 
tion.  All  was  expectation,  and  for  some  time  nothing 
but  expectation.  No  boat-race  or  regatta  ever  began 
at  the  time  appointed  for  the  start.  Somebody  breaks 
an  oar,  or  somebody  fails  to  appear  in  season,  or  some 
thing  is  the  matter  with  a  seat  or  an  outrigger ;  or  if 
there  is  no  such  excuse,  the  crew  of  one  or  both  or  all 
the  boats  to  take  part  in  the  race  must  paddle  about 
to  get  themselves  ready  for  work,  to  the  infinite  weari 
ness  of  all  the  spectators,  who  naturally  ask  why  all 
this  getting  ready  is  not  attended  to  beforehand. 
The  Algonquins  wore  plain  gray  flannel  suits  and 
white  caps.  The  young  ladies  were  all  in  dark  blue 
dresses,  touched  up  with  a  red  ribbon  here  and  there, 
and  wore"  light  straw  hats.  The  little  coxswain  of  the 
Atalanta  was  the  last  to  step  on  board.  As  she  took 
her  place  she  carefully  deposited  at  her  feet  a  white 
handkerchief  wrapped  about  something  or  other,  — 
perhaps  a  sponge,  in  case  the  boat  should  take  in 
water. 

At  last  the  Algonquin  shot  out  from  the  little  nook 
where  she  lay,  —  long,  narrow,  shining,  swift  as  a  pick 
erel  when  he  darts  from  the  reedy  shore.  It  was  a 
beautiful  sight  to  see  the  eight  young  fellows  in  their 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  47 

close-fitting  suits,  their  brown  muscular  arms  bare, 
bending  their  backs  for  the  stroke  and  recovering,  as 
if  they  were  parts  of  a  single  machine. 

"  The  gals  can't  stan'  it  agin  them  fellers,"  said  the 
old  blacksmith  from  the  village. 

"  You  wait  till  the  gals  get  a-goin',''  said  the  car 
penter,  who  had  often  worked  in  the  gymnasium  of 
the  Corinua  Institute,  and  knew  something  of  their 
muscular  accomplishments.  "  Y'  ought  to  see  'em 
climb  ropes,  and  swing  dumb-bells,  and  pull  in  them 
rowin'-machines.  Ask  Jake  there  whether  they  can't 
row  a  mild  in  double-quick  time,  —  he  knows  all 
abaout  it." 

Jake  was  by  profession  a  fisherman,  and  a  fresh 
water  fisherman  in  a  country  village  is  inspector-gen 
eral  of  all  that  goes  on  out-of-doors,  being  a  lazy,  wan 
dering  sort  of  fellow,  whose  study  of  the  habits  and 
habitats  of  fishes  gives  him  a  kind  of  shrewdness  of 
observation,  just  as  dealing  in  horses  is  an  education 
of  certain  faculties,  and  breeds  a  race  of  men  pecu 
liarly  cunning,  suspicious,  wary,  and  wide  awake,  with 
a  rhetoric  of  appreciation  and  depreciation  all  its  own. 
Jake  made  his  usual  preliminary  signal,  and  deliv 
ered  himself  to  the  following  effect :  — 

"  Wahl,  I  don'  know  jest  what  to  say.  I  've  seed 
'ein  both  often  enough  when  they  was  practising  an' 
I  tell  ye  the'  wa'n't  no  slouch  abaout  neither  on 
'em.  But  them  boats  is  allfired  long,  'n'  eight  on  'em 
stretched  in  a  straight  line  eendways  makes  a  consid'- 
able  piece  aout  'f  a  mile  'n'  a  haaf .  I  'd  bate  on  them 
gals  if  it  wa'n't  that  them  fellers  is  naterally  longer 
winded,  as  the  gals  11  find  aout  by  the  time  they  git 
raound  the  stake  'n'  over  agin  the  big  ellum.  1 1J  go 
ye  a  quarter  on  the  pahuts  agin  the  petticoats." 


48  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

The  fresh- water  fisherman  had  expressed  the  pre 
vailing  belief  that  the  young  ladies  were  overmatched. 
Still  there  were  not  wanting  those  who  thought  the 
advantage  allowed  the  "Lantas,"  as  they  called  the 
Corinna  boat-crew,  was  too  great,  and  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  the  "  Quins  "  to  make  it  up  and  go  by 
them. 

The  Algonquins  rowed  up  and  down  a  few  times 
before  the  spectators.  They  appeared  in  perfect 
training,  neither  too  fat  nor  too  fine,  mettlesome  as 
colts,  steady  as  draught-horses,  deep-breathed  as  oxen, 
disciplined  to  work  together  as  symmetrically  as  a  sin 
gle  sculler  pulls  his  pair  of  oars.  The  fisherman  of 
fered  to  make  his  quarter  fifty  cents.  No  takers. 

Five  minutes  passed,  and  all  eyes  were  strained  to 
the  south,  looking  for  the  Atalanta.  A  clump  of  trees 
hid  the  edge  of  the  lake  along  which  the  Corinna's 
boat  was  stealing  towards  the  starting-point.  Pres 
ently  the  long  shell  swept  into  view,  with  its  blooming 
rowers,  who,  with  their  ample  dresses,  seemed  to  fill 
it  almost  as  full  as  Raphael  fills  his  skiff  on  the  edge 
of  the  Lake  of  Galilee.  But  how  steadily  the  Ata 
lanta  came  on  !  —  no  rocking,  no  splashing,  no  appar 
ent  strain  ;  the  bow  oar  turning  to  look  ahead  every 
now  and  then,  and  watching  her  course,  which  seemed 
to  be  straight  as  an  arrow,  the  beat  of  the  strokes  as 
true  and  regular  as  the  pulse  of  the  healthiest  rower 
among  them  all.  And  if  the  sight  of  the  other  boat 
and  its  crew  was  beautiful,  how  lovely  was  the  look  of 
this  !  Eight  young  girls,  —  young  ladies,  for  those 
who  prefer  that  more  dignified  and  less  attractive  ex 
pression,  —  all  in  the  flush  of  youth,  all  in  vigorous 
health ;  every  muscle  taught  its  duty ;  each  rower 
alert,  not  to  be  a  tenth  of  a  second  out  of  time,  or  let 


A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY.  49 

her  oar  dally  with  the  water  so  as  to  lose  an  ounce  of 
its  propelling  virtue  ;  every  eye  kindling  with  the  hope 
of  victory.  Each  of  the  boats  was  cheered  as  it  came 
in  sight,  but  the  cheers  for  the  Atalanta  were  naturally 
the  loudest,  as  the  gallantry  of  one  sex  and  the  clear, 
high  voices  of  the  other  gave  it  life  and  vigor. 

"  Take  your  places !  "  shouted  the  umpire,  five  min 
utes  before  the  half  hour.  The  two  boats  felt  their 
way  slowly  and  cautiously  to  their  positions,  which 
had  been  determined  by  careful  measurement.  After 
a  little  backing  and  filling  they  got  into  line,  at  the 
proper  distance  from  each  other,  and  sat  motionless, 
their  bodies  bent  forward,  their  arms  outstretched,  their 
oars  in  the  water,  waiting  for  the  word. 

"  Go !  "  shouted  the  umpire. 

Away  sprang  the  Atalanta,  and  far  behind  her 
leaped  the  Algonquin,  her  oars  bending  like  so  many 
long  Indian  bows  as  their  blades  flashed  through  the 
water. 

"A  steru  chase  is  a  long  chase,"  especially  when 
one  craft  is  a  great  distance  behind  the  other.  It 
looked  as  if  it  would  be  impossible  for  the  rear  boat 
to  overcome  the  odds  against  it.  Of  course  the 
Algonquin  kept  gaining,  but  could  it  possibly  gain 
enough?  That  was  the  question.  As  the  boats  got 
farther  and  farther  away,  it  became  more  and  more 
difficult  to  determine  what  change  there  was  in  the 
interval  between  them.  But  when  they  came  to 
rounding  the  stake  it  was  easier  to  guess  at  the  amount 
of  space  which  had  been  gained.  It  was  clear  that 
something  like  half  the  distance,  four  lengths,  as 
nearly  as  could  be  estimated,  had  been  made  up  in 
rowing  the  first  three  quarters  of  a  mile.  Could  the 

Algonquins  do  a  little  better  than  this  in  the  second 

4 


50  A   MOETAL   ANTIPATHY. 

half  of  the  race-course,  they  would  be  sure  of  win 
ning. 

The  boats  had  turned  the  stake,  and  were  coming 
in  rapidly.  Every  minute  the  University  boat  was 
getting  nearer  the  other. 

"  Go  it,  Quins !  "  shouted  the  students. 

"  Pull  away,  Lantas !  "  screamed  the  girls,  who 
were  crowding  down  to  the  edge  of  the  water. 

Nearer,  —  nearer,  —  the  rear  boat  is  pressing  the 
other  more  and  more  closely,  —  a  few  more  strokes, 
and  they  will  be  even,  for  there  is  but  one  length  be 
tween  them,  and  thirty  rods  will  carry  them  to  the 
line.  It  looks  desperate  for  the  Atalantas.  The  bow 
oar  of  the  Algonquin  turns  his  head.  He  sees  the  lit 
tle  coxswain  leaning  forward  at  every  stroke,  as  if  her 
trivial  weight  were  of  such  mighty  consequence,  —  but 
a  few  ounces  might  turn  the  scale  of  victory.  As  he 
turned  he  got  a  glimpse  of  the  stroke  oar  of  the  Ata- 
lanta.  What  a  flash  of  loveliness  it  was !  Her  face 
was  like  the  reddest  of  June  roses,  with  the  heat  and 
the  strain  and  the  passion  of  expected  triumph.  The 
upper  button  of  her  close-fitting  flannel  suit  had  stran 
gled  her  as  her  bosom  heaved  with  exertion,  and  it 
had  given  way  before  the  fierce  clutch  she  made  at 
it.  The  bow  oar  was  a  staunch  and  steady  rower, 
but  he  was  human.  The  blade  of  his  oar  lingered  in 
the  water ;  a  little  more  and  he  would  have  caught  a 
crab,  and  perhaps  lost  the  race  by  his  momentary  be 
wilderment. 

The  boat,  which  seemed  as  if  it  had  all  the  life  and 
nervousness  of  a  Derby  three-year-old,  felt  the  slight 
check,  and  all  her  men  bent  more  vigorously  to  their 
oars.  The  Atalantas  saw  the  movement,  and  made  a 
spurt  to  keep  their  lead  and  gain  upon  it  if  they 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  51 

could.  It  was  of  no  use.  The  strong  arras  of  the 
young  men  were  too  much  for  the  young  maidens ; 
only  a  few  lengths  remained  to  be  rowed,  and  they 
would  certainly  pass  the  Atalanta  before  she  could 
reach  the  line. 

The  little  coxswain  saw  that  it  was  all  up  with  the 
girls'  crew  if  she  could  not  save  them  by  some  strate 
gic  device. 

"  Dolus  an  virtus  quis  in  hoste  requirat  ?  " 

she  whispered  to  herself,  —  for  The  Terror  remem 
bered  her  Virgil  as  she  did  everything  else  she  ever 
studied.  As  she  stooped,  she  lifted  the  handkerchief 
at  her  feet,  and  took  from  it  a  flaming  bouquet. 
"  Look !  "  she  cried,  and  flung  it  just  forward  of  the 
track  of  the  Algonquin.  The  captain  of  the  Univer 
sity  boat  turned  his  head,  and  there  was  the  lovely 
vision  which  had  a  moment  before  bewitched  him. 
The  owner  of  all  that  loveliness  must,  he  thought, 
have  flung  the  bouquet.  It  was  a  challenge :  how 
could  he  be  such  a  coward  as  to  decline  accepting  it ! 
He  was  sure  he  could  win  the  race  now,  and  he  would 
sweep  past  the  line  in  triumph  with  the  great  bunch 
of  flowers  at  the  stem  of  his  boat,  proud  as  Van 
Tromp  in  the  British  channel  with  the  broom  at  his 
mast-head. 

He  turned  the  boat's  head  a  little  by  backing  water. 
He  came  up  with  the  floating  flowers,  and  near  enough 
to  reach  them.  Pie  stooped  and  snatched  them  up, 
with  the  loss  perhaps  of  a  second  in  all,  —  no  more. 
He  felt  sure  of  his  victory. 

How  can  one  tell  the  story  of  the  finish  in  cold 
blooded  preterites  ?  Are  we  not  there  ourselves  ?  Are 
not  our  muscles  straining  with  those  of  these  sixteen 


52  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

young  creatures,  full  of  hot,  fresh  blood,  their  nerves 
all  tingling  like  so  many  tight-strained  harp-strings, 
all  their  life  concentrating  itself  in  this  passionate  mo 
ment  of  supreme  effort?  No!  We  are  seeing,  not 
telling  about  what  somebody  else  once  saw ! 

—  The  bow  of  the  Algonquin  passes  the  stern  of 
the  Atalanta ! 

—  The  bow  of  the  Algonquin  is  on  a  level  with  the 
middle  of  the  Atalanta ! 

—  Three  more  lengths'  rowing  and  the  college  crew 
will  pass  the  girls ! 

— "  Hurrah  for  the  Quins ! "  The  Algonquin 
ranges  up  alongside  of  the  Atalanta ! 

"  Through  with  her !  "  shouts  the  captain  of  the 
Algonquin. 

"  Now,  girls !  "  shrieks  the  captain  of  the  Atalanta. 

They  near  the  line,  every  rower  straining  desper 
ately,  almost  madly. 

—  Crack  goes  the  oar  of  the  Atalanta's  captain, 
and  up  flash  its  splintered  fragments,  as  the  stem  of 
her  boat  springs  past  the  line,  eighteen  inches  at  least 
ahead  of  the  Algonquin. 

Hooraw  for  the  Lantas !  Hooraw  for  the  Girls ! 
Hooraw  for  the  Institoot !  shout  a  hundred  voices. 

"  Hurrah  for  woman's  righf s  and  female  suffrage  !  " 
pipes  the  small  voice  of  The  Terror,  and  there  is  loud 
laughing  and  cheering  all  round. 

She  had  not  studied  her  classical  dictionary  and  her 
mythology  for  nothing.  "  I  have  paid  off  one  old 
score,"  she  said.  "  Set  down  my  damask  roses  against 
the  golden  apples  of  Hippomenes !  " 

It  was  that  one  second  lost  in  snatching  up  the  bou. 
quet  which  gave  the  race  to  the  Atalantas. 


III. 

THE  WHITE   CANOE. 

WHILE  the  two  boats  were  racing,  other  boats  with 
lookers-on  in  them  were  rowing  or  sailing  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  race-course.  The  scene  on  the 
water  was  a  gay  one,  for  the  young  people  in  the  boats 
were,  many  of  them,  acquainted  with  each  other. 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  lively  talk  until  the  race  be 
came  too  exciting.  Then  many  fell  silent,  until,  as  the 
boats  neared  the  line,  and  still  more  as  they  crossed 
it,  the  shouts  burst  forth  which  showed  how  a  cramp 
of  attention  finds  its  natural  relief  in  a  fit  of  convul 
sive  exclamation. 

But  far  away,  on  the  other  side  of  the  lake,  a  birch- 
bark  canoe  was  to  be  seen,  in  which  sat  a  young  man, 
who  paddled  it  skilfully  and  swiftly.  It  was  evident 
enough  that  he  was  watching  the  race  intently,  but 
the  spectators  could  see  little  more  than  that.  One  of 
them,  however,  who  sat  upon  the  stand,  had  a  power* 
ful  spy-glass,  and  could  distinguish  his  motions  verj 
minutely  and  exactly.  It  was  seen  by  this  curious 
observer  that  the  young  man  had  an  opera-glass  with 
him,  which  he  used  a  good  deal  at  intervals.  The 
spectator  thought  he  kept  it  directed  to  the  girls' 
boat,  chiefly,  if  not  exclusively.  He  thought  also  that 
the  opera-glass  was  more  particularly  pointed  towards 
the  bow  of  the  boat,  and  came  to  the  natural  conclu 
sion  that  the  bow  oar,  Miss  Euthymia  Tower,  captain 


54  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

of  the  Atalantas,  "  The  Wonder  "  of  the  Corinna  In 
stitute,  was  the  attraction  which  determined  the  direc 
tion  of  the  instrument. 

"  Who  is  that  in  the  canee  over  there  ?  "  asked  the 
owner  of  the  spy-glass. 

"  That 's  just  what  we  should  like  to  know,"  an 
swered  the  old  landlord's  wife.  "He  and  his  man 
boarded  with  us  when  they  first  came,  but  we  could 
never  find  out  anything  about  him  only  just  his  name 
and  his  ways  of  living.  His  name  is  Kirkwood,  — 
Maurice  Kirkwood,  Esq.,  it  used  to  come  on  his  let 
ters.  As  for  his  ways  of  living,  he  was  the  solitariest 
human  being  that  I  ever  came  across.  His  man  car 
ried  his  meals  up  to  him.  He  used  to  stay  in  his 
room  pretty  much  all  day,  but  at  night  he  would  be 
off,  walking,  or  riding  on  horseback,  or  paddling  about 
in  the  lake,  sometimes  till  nigh  morning.  There 's 
something  very  strange  about  that  Mr.  Kirkwood. 
But  there  don't  seem  to  be  any  harm  in  him.  Only 
nobody  can  guess  what  his  business  is.  They  got  up 
a  story  about  him  at  one  time.  What  do  you  think? 
They  said  he  was  a  counterfeiter !  And  so  they  went 
one  night  to  his  room,  when  he  was  out,  and  that  man 
of  his  was  awray  too,  and  they  carried  keys,  and  opened 
pretty  much  everything ;  and  they  found  —  well,  they 
found  just  nothing  at  all  except  writings  and  let 
ters, —  letters  from  places  in  America  and  in  Eng 
land,  and  some  with  Italian  postmarks :  that  was  all. 
Since  that  time  the  sheriff  and  his  folks  have  let  him 
alone  and  minded  their  own  business.  He  was  a  gen 
tleman,  —  anybody  ought  to  have  known  that ;  and 
anybody  that  knew  about  his  nice  ways  of  living  and 
behaving,  and  knew  the  kind  of  wear  he  had  for  his 
underclothing,  might  have  known  it.  I  could  have 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  55 

told  those  officers  that  they  had  better  not  bother  him. 
I  know  the  ways  of  real  gentlemen  and  real  ladies,  and 
I  know  those  fellows  in  store  clothes  that  look  a  little 
too  fine,  —  outside.  Wait  till  washing-day  comes !  " 

The  good  lady  had  her  own  standards  for  testing 
humanity,  and  they  were  not  wholly  unworthy  of  con 
sideration  ;  they  were  quite  as  much  to  be  relied  on  as 
the  judgments  of  the  travelling  phrenologist,  who  sent 
his  accomplice  on  before  him  to  study  out  the  princi 
pal  personages  in  the  village,  and  in  the  light  of  these 
revelations  interpreted  the  bumps,  with  very  little  re 
gard  to  Gall  and  Spurzheim,  or  any  other  authorities. 

Even  with  the  small  amount  of  information  obtained 
by  the  search  among  his  papers  and  effects,  the  gossips 
of  the  village  had  constructed  several  distinct  histories 
for  the  mysterious  stranger.  He  was  an  agent  of  a 
great  publishing  house ;  a  leading  contributor  to  sev 
eral  important  periodicals  ;  the  author  of  that  anony 
mously  published  novel  which  had  made  so  much  talk ; 
the  poet  of  a  large  clothing  establishment ;  a  spy  of 
the  Italian,  some  said  the  Russian,  some  said  the  Brit 
ish,  Government ;  a  proscribed  refugee  from  some 
country  where  he  had  been  plotting ;  a  school-master 
without  a  school,  a  minister  without  a  pulpit,  an  actor 
without  an  engagement ;  in  short,  there  was  no  end  to 
the  perfectly  senseless  stories  that  were  told  about  him, 
from  that  which  made  him  out  an  escaped  convict  to 
the  whispered  suggestion  that  he  was  the  eccentric 
heir  to  a  great  English  title  and  estate. 

The  one  unquestionable  fact  was  that  of  his  extraor 
dinary  seclusion.  Nobody  in  the  village,  no  student 
in  the  University,  knew  his  history.  No  young  lady  in 
the  Corinna  Institute  had  ever  had  a  word  from  him. 
Sometimes,  as  the  boats  of  the  University  or  the  Insti- 


56  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tute  were  returning  at  dusk,  their  rowers  would  see 
the  canoe  stealing  into  the  shadows  as  they  drew  near 
it.  Sometimes  on  a  moonlight  night,  when  a  party  of 
the  young  ladies  were  out  upon  the  lake,  they  would 
see  the  white  canoe  gliding  ghost-like  in  the  distance. 
And  it  had  happened  more  than  once  that  when  a 
boat's  crew  had  been  out  with  singers  among  them, 
while  they  were  in  the  midst  of  a  song,  the  white  canoe 
would  suddenly  appear  and  rest  upon  the  water,  —  not 
very  near  them,  but  within  hearing  distance,  —  and  so 
remain  until  the  singing  was  over,  when  it  would  steal 
away  and  be  lost  sight  of  in  some  inlet  or  behind  some 
jutting  rock. 

Naturally  enough,  there  was  intense  curiosity  about 
this  young  man.  The  landlady  had  told  her  story, 
which  explained  nothing.  There  was  nobody  to  be 
questioned  about  him  except  his  servant,  an  Italian, 
whose  name  was  Paolo,  but  who  to  the  village  was 
known  as  Mr.  Paul. 

Mr.  Paul  would  have  seemed  the  easiest  person  in 
the  world  to  worm  a  secret  out  of.  He  was  good-na 
tured,  child-like  as  a  Heathen  Chinee,  talked  freely 
with  everybody  in  such  English  as  he  had  at  command, 
knew  all  the  little  people  of  the  village,  and  was  fol 
lowed  round  by  them  partly  from  his  personal  attrac 
tion  for  them,  and  partly  because  he  was  apt  to  have  a 
stick  of  candy  or  a  handful  of  peanuts  or  other  desira 
ble  luxury  in  his  pocket  for  any  of  his  little  friends  he 
met  with.  He  had  that  wholesome,  happy  look,  so 
uncommon  in  our  arid  countrymen,  —  a  look  hardly  to 
be  found  except  where  figs  and  oranges  ripen  in  the 
open  air.  A  kindly  climate  to  grow  up  in,  a  religion 
which  takes  your  money  and  gives  you  a  stamped 
ticket  good  at  Saint  Peter's  box  office,  a  roomy  chest 


A  MORTAL  AXTIPATHT.  57 

and  a  good  pair  of  lungs  in  it,  an  honest  digestive  ap 
paratus,  a  lively  temperament,  a  cheerful  acceptance 
of  the  place  in  life  assigned  to  one  by  nature  and  cir 
cumstance,  —  these  are  conditions  under  which  life 
may  be  quite  comfortable  to  endure,  and  certainly  is 
very  pleasant  to  contemplate.  All  these  conditions 
were  united  in  Paolo.  He  was  the  easiest,  pleasant- 
est  creature  to  talk  with  that  one  could  ask  for  a  com 
panion.  His  southern  vivacity,  his  amusing  English, 
his  simplicity  and  openness,  made  him  friends  every 
where. 

It  seemed  as  if  it  would  be  a  very  simple  matter  to 
get  the  history  of  his  master  out  of  this  guileless  and 
unsophisticated  being.  He  had  been  tried  by  all  the 
village  experts.  The  rector  had  put  a  number  of  well- 
studied  careless  questions,  which  failed  of  their  pur 
pose.  The  old  librarian  of  the  town  library  had  taken 
note  of  all  the  books  he  carried  to  his  master,  and 
asked  about  his  studies  and  pursuits.  Paolo  found  it 
hard  to  understand  his  English,  apparently,  and  an 
swered  in  the  most  irrelevant  way.  The  leading  gos 
sip  of  the  village  tried  her  skill  in  pumping  him  for 
information.  It  was  all  in  vain. 

His  master's  way  of  life  was  peculiar,  —  in  fact,  ec 
centric.  He  had  hired  rooms  in  an  old-fashioned 
three-story  house.  He  had  two  rooms  in  the  second 
and  third  stories  of  this  old  wooden  building :  his  study 
in  the  second,  his  sleeping-room  in  the  one  above  it. 
Paolo  lived  in  the  basement,  where  he  had  all  the  con 
veniences  for  cooking,  and  played  the  part  of  chef  for 
his  master  and  himself.  This  was  only  a  part  of  his 
duty,  for  he  was  a  man-of -all- work,  purveyor,  steward, 
chambermaid,  —  as  universal  in  his  services  for  one 
man  as  Pushee  at  the  Anchor  Tavern  used  to  be  for 
everybody. 


58  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

It  so  happened  that  Paolo  took  a  severe  cold  one 
winter's  day,  and  had  such  threatening  symptoms  that 
he  asked  the  baker,  when  he  called,  to  send  the  village 
physician  to  see  him.  In  the  course  of  his  visit  the 
doctor  naturally  inquired  about  the  health  of  Paolo's 
master. 

"  Signer  Kirkwood  well,  —  molto  bene,"  said  Paolo. 

"  Why  does  he  keep  out  of  sight  as  he  does  ?  " 
asked  the  doctor. 

"  He  always  so,"  replied  Paolo.  "  Una  antipa- 
tia." 

Whether  Paolo  was  off  his  guard  with  the  doctor, 
whether  he  revealed  it  to  him  as  to  a  father  confessor, 
or  whether  he  thought  it  time  that  the  reason  of  his 
master's  seclusion  should  be  known,  the  doctor  did  not 
feel  sure.  At  any  rate,  Paolo  was  not  disposed  to 
make  any  further  revelations.  Una  antipatia,  —  an 
antipathy,  —  that  was  all  the  doctor  learned.  He 
thought  the  matter  over,  and  the  more  he  reflected  the 
more  he  was  puzzled.  What  could  an  antipathy  be 
that  made  a  young  man  a  recluse !  Was  it  a  dread  of 
blue  sky  and  open  air,  of  the  smell  of  flowers,  or  some 
electrical  impression  to  which  he  was  unnaturally  sen 
sitive  ? 

Dr.  Butts  carried  these  questions  home  with  him. 
His  wife  was  a  sensible,  discreet  woman,  whom  he 
could  trust  with  many  professional  secrets.  He  told 
her  of  Paolo's  revelation,  and  talked  it  over  with  her  in 
the  light  of  his  experience  and  her  own  ;  for  she  had 
known  some  curious  cases  of  constitutional  likes  and 
aversions. 

Mrs.  Butts  buried  the  information  in  the  grave  of 
her  memory,  where  it  lay  for  nearly  a  week.  At  the 
end  of  that  tune  it  emerged  in  a  confidential  whispei 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  59 

to  her  favorite  sister-in-law,  a  perfectly  safe  person. 
Twenty-four  hours  later  the  story  was  all  over  the  vil 
lage  that  Maurice  Kirkwood  was  the  subject  of  a 
strange,  mysterious,  unheard-of  antipathy  to  some 
thing,  —  nobody  knew  what ;  and  the  whole  neighbor 
hood  naturally  resolved  itself  into  an  unorganized  com 
mittee  of  investigation. 


IV. 

THE  YOUNG   SOLITARY. 

WHAT  is  a  country  village  without  its  mysterious 
personage  ?  Few  are  now  living  who  can  remember 
the  advent  of  the  handsome  young  man  who  was  the 
mystery  of  our  great  university  town  "  sixty  years 
since,"  —  long  enough  ago  for  a  romance  to  grow  out 
of  a  narrative,  as  Waverley  may  remind  us.  The 
writer  of  this  narrative  remembers  him  well,  and  is 
not  sure  that  he  has  not  told  the  strange  story  in 
some  form  or  other  to  the  last  generation,  or  to  the 
one  before  the  last.  No  matter  :  if  he  has  told  it  they 
have  forgotten  it,  —  that  is,  if  they  have  ever  read  it ; 
and  whether  they  have  or  have  not,  the  story  is  singu 
lar  enough  to  justify  running  the  risk  of  repetition. 

This  young  man,  with  a  curious  name  of  Scandina 
vian  origin,  appeared  unheralded  in  the  town,  as  it 
was  then,  of  Cantabridge.  He  wanted  employment, 
and  soon  found  it  in  the  shape  of  manual  labor,  which 
he  undertook  and  performed  cheerfully.  But  his 
whole  appearance  showed  plainly  enough  that  he  was 
bred  to  occupations  of  a  very  different  nature,  if,  in 
deed,  he  had  been  accustomed  to  any  kind  of  toil  for 
his  living.  His  aspect  was  that  of  one  of  gentle  birth. 
His  hands  were  not  those  of  a  laborer,  and  his  fea 
tures  were  delicate  and  refined,  as  well  as  of  remark 
able  beauty.  Who  he  was,  where  he  came  from,  why 
he  had  come  to  Cantabridge,  was  never  clearly  ex- 


A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY.  61 

plained.  lie  was  alone,  without  friends,  except  among 
the  acquaintances  he  had  made  in  his  new  residence. 
If  he  had  any  correspondents,  they  were  not  known  to 
the  neighborhood  where  he  was  living.  But  if  he  had 
neither  friends  nor  correspondents,  there  was  some 
reason  for  believing  that  he  had  enemies.  Strange 
circumstances  occurred  which  connected  themselves 
with  him  in  an  ominous  and  unaccountable  way.  A 
threatening  letter  was  slipped  under  the  door  of  a 
house  where  he  was  visiting.  He  had  a  sudden  attack 
of  illness,  which  was  thought  to  look  very  much  like 
the  effect  of  poison.  At  one  time  he  disappeared,  and 
was  found  wandering,  bewildered,  in  a  town  many 
miles  from  that  where  he  was  residing.  When  ques 
tioned  how  he  came  there,  he  told  a  coherent  story 
that  he  had  been  got,  under  some  pretext,  or  in  some 
not  incredible  way,  into  a  boat,  from  which,  at  a  cer 
tain  landing-place,  he  had  escaped  and  fled  for  his 
life,  which  he  believed  was  in  danger  from  his  kid 
nappers. 

Whoever  his  enemies  may  have  been,  —  if  they 
really  existed,  —  he  did  not  fall  a  victim  to  their  plots, 
so  far  as  known  to  or  remembered  by  this  witness. 

Various  interpretations  were  put  upon  his  story. 
Conjectures  were  as  abundant  as  they  were  in  the  case 
of  Kaspar  Hauser.  That  he  was  of  good  family 
seemed  probable  ;  that  he  was  of  distinguished  birth, 
not  impossible  ;  that  he  was  the  dangerous  rival  of  a 
candidate  for  a  greatly  coveted  position  in  one  of  the 
northern  states  of  Europe  was  a  favorite  speculation 
of  some  of  the  more  romantic  young  persons.  There 
was  no  dramatic  ending  to  this  story,  —  at  least  none 
is  remembered  by  the  present  writer. 

"  He  left  a  name,"  like  the  royal  Swede,  of  whose 


62  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

lineage  he  may  have  been  for  aught  that  the  village 
people  knew,  but  not  a  name  at  which  an}rbody  "  grew 
pale ; "  for  he  had  swindled  no  one,  and  broken  no 
woman's  heart  with  false  vows.  Possibly  some  with 
ered  cheeks  may  flush  faintly  as  they  recall  the  hand 
some  young  man  who  came  before  the  Cantabridge 
maidens  fully  equipped  for  a  hero  of  romance  when 
the  century  was  in  its  first  quarter. 

The  writer  has  been  reminded  of  the  handsome 
Swede  by  the  incidents  attending  the  advent  of  the 
unknown  and  interesting  stranger  who  had  made  his 
appearance  at  Arrowhead  Village. 

It  was  a  very  insufficient  and  unsatisfactory  reason 
to  assign  for  the  young  man's  solitary  habits  that  he 
was  the  subject  of  an  antipathy.  For  what  do  we  un 
derstand  by  that  word  ?  When  a  young  lady  screams 
at  the  sight  of  a  spider,  we  accept  her  explanation 
that  she  has  a  natural  antipathy  to  the  creature. 
When  a  person  expresses  a  repugnance  to  some  whole 
some  article  of  food,  agreeable  to  most  people,  we  are 
satisfied  if  he  gives  the  same  reason.  And  so  of  va 
rious  odors,  which  are  pleasing  to  some  persons  and 
repulsive  to  others.  We  do  not  pretend  to  go  behind 
the  fact.  It  is  an  individual,  and  it  may  be  a  family, 
peculiarity.  Even  between  different  personalities  there 
is  an  instinctive  elective  dislike  as  well  as  an  elective 
affinity.  We  are  not  bound  to  give  a  reason  why  Dr. 
Fell  is  odious  to  us  any  more  than  the  prisoner  who  per 
emptorily  challenges  a  juryman  is  bound  to  say  why  he 
does  it;  it  is  enough  that  he  "does  not  like  his  looks." 

There  was  nothing  strange,  then,  that  Maurice 
Kirkwood  should  have  his  special  antipathy  ;  a  great 
many  other  people  have  odd  likes  and  dislikes.  But 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  63 

it  was  a  very  curious  thing  that  this  antipathy  should 
be  alleged  as  the  reason  for  his  singular  mode  of  life. 
All  sorts  of  explanations  were  suggested,  not  one  of 
them  in  the  least  satisfactory,  but  serving  to  keep  the 
curiosity  of  inquirers  active  until  they  were  superseded 
by  a  new  theory.  One  story  was  that  Maurice  had  a 
great  fear  of  dogs.  It  grew  at  last  to  a  connected 
narrative,  in  which  a  fright  in  childhood  from  a  rabid 
mongrel  was  said  to  have  given  him  such  a  sensitive 
ness  to  the  near  presence  of  dogs  that  he  was  liable  to 
convulsions  if  one  came  close  to  him. 

This  hypothesis  had  some  plausibility.  No  other 
creature  would  be  so  likely  to  trouble  a  person  who 
had  an  antipathy  to  it.  Dogs  are  very  apt  to  make 
the  acquaintance  of  strangers,  in  a  free  and  easy  way. 
They  are  met  with  everywhere,  —  in  one's  daily  walk, 
at  the  thresholds  of  the  doors  one  enters,  in  the  gen 
tleman's  library,  on  the  rug  of  my  lady's  sitting-room 
and  on  the  cushion  of  her  carriage.  It  is  true  that 
there  are  few  persons  who  have  an  instinctive  repug 
nance  to  this  "  friend  of  man."  But  what  if  this  so- 
called  antipathy  were  only  a  fear,  a  terror,  which  bor 
rowed  the  less  unmanly  name  ?  It  was  a  fair  question, 
if,  indeed,  the  curiosity  of  the  public  had  a  right  to 
ask  any  questions  at  all  about  a  harmless  individual 
who  gave  no  offence,  and  seemed  entitled  to  the  right 
of  choosing  his  way  of  living  to  suit  himself,  without 
being  submitted  to  espionage. 

There  was  no  positive  evidence  bearing  on  the  point 
as  yet.  But  one  of  the  village  people  had  a  large 
Newfoundland  dog,  of  a  very  sociable  disposition,  with 
which  he  determined  to  test  the  question.  He  watched 
for  the  time  when  Maurice  should  leave  his  house  for 
the  woods  or  the  lake,  and  started  with  his  dog  to  meet 


G4  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

him.  The  animal  walked  up  to  the  stranger  in  a  very 
sociable  fashion,  and  began  making  his  acquaintance, 
after  the  usual  manner  of  well-bred  dogs  ;  that  is,  with 
the  courtesies  and  blandishments  by  which  the  canine 
Chesterfield  is  distinguished  from  the  ill-conditioned 
cur.  Maurice  patted  him  in  a  friendly  way,  and  spoke 
to  him  as  one  who  was  used  to  the  fellowship  of  such 
companions.  That  idle  question  and  foolish  story 
were  disposed  of,  therefore,  and  some  other  solution 
must  be  found,  if  possible. 

A  much  more  common  antipathy  is  that  which  is 
entertained  with  regard  to  cats.  This  has  never  been 
explained.  It  is  not  mere  aversion  to  the  look  of  the 
creature,  or  to  any  sensible  quality  known  to  the  com 
mon  observer.  The  cat  is  pleasing  in  aspect,  graceful 
in  movement,  nice  in  personal  habits,  and  of  amiable 
disposition.  No  cause  of  offence  is  obvious,  and  yet 
there  are  many  persons  who  cannot  abide  the  presence 
of  the  most  innocent  little  kitten.  They  can  tell,  in 
some  mysterious  way,  that  there  is  a  cat  in  the  room 
when  they  can  neither  see  nor  hear  the  creature. 
Whether  it  is  an  electrical  or  quasi-magnetic  phe 
nomenon,  or  whatever  it  may  be,  of  the  fact  of  this 
strange  influence  there  are  too  many  well-authenticated 
instances  to  allow  its  being  questioned.  But  suppose 
Maurice  Kirkwood  to  be  the  subject  of  this  antipathy 
in  its  extremest  degree,  it  would  in  no  manner  account 
for  the  isolation  to  which  he  had  condemned  himself. 
He  might  shun  the  firesides  of  the  old  women  whose 
tabbies  were  purring  by  their  footstools,  but  these 
worthy  dames  do  not  make  up  the  whole  population. 

These  two  antipathies  having  been  disposed  of,  a 
new  suggestion  was  started,  and  was  talked  over  with 
a  curious  sort  of  half  belief,  very  much  as  ghost  stories 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  65 

are  told  in  a  circle  of  moderately  instructed  and  in 
quiring  persons.  This  was  that  Maurice  was  endowed 
with  the  unenviable  gift  of  the  evil  eye.  He  was 
in  frequent  communication  with  Italy,  as  his  letters 
showed,  and  had  recently  been  residing  in  that  coun 
try,  as  was  learned  from  Paolo.  Now  everybody  knows 
that  the  evil  eye  is  not  rarely  met  with  in  Italy.  Every 
body  who  has  ever  read  Mr.  Story's  "  Roba  di  Roma  " 
knows  what  a  terrible  power  it  is  which  the  owner  of 
the  evil  eye  exercises.  It  can  blight  and  destroy  what 
ever  it  falls  upon.  No  person's  life  or  limb  is  safe  if 
the  jettatura,  the  withering  glance  of  the  deadly  organ, 
falls  upon  him.  It  must  be  observed  that  this  malign 
effect  may  follow  a  look  from  the  holiest  personages,  — 
that  is,  if  we  may  assume  that  a  monk  is  such  as  a 
matter  of  course.  Certainly  we  have  a  right  to  take 
it  for  granted  that  the  late  Pope,  Pius  Ninth,  was  an 
eminently  holy  man,  and  yet  he  had  the  name  of  dis 
pensing  the  mystic  and  dreaded  jettatura  as  well  as 
his  blessing.  If  Maurice  Kirkwood  carried  that  de 
structive  influence,  so  that  his  clear  blue  eyes  were 
more  to  be  feared  than  the  fascinations  of  the  dead 
liest  serpent,  it  could  easily  be  understood  why  he  kept 
his  look  away  from  all  around  him  whom  he  feared 
he  might  harm. 

No  sensible  person  in  Arrowhead  Village  really  be 
lieved  in  the  evil  eye,  but  it  served  the  purpose  of  a 
temporary  hypothesis,  as  do  many  suppositions  which 
we  take  as  a  nucleus  for  our  observations  without  put 
ting  any  real  confidence  in  them.  It  was  just  suited  to 
the  romantic  notions  of  the  more  flighty  persons  in 
the  village,  who  had  meddled  more  or  less  with  Spirit 
ualism,  and  were  ready  for  any  new  fancy,  if  it  were 
only  wild  enough. 


DO  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

The  riddle  of  the  young  stranger's  peculiarity  did 
not  seem  likely  to  find  any  very  speedy  solution. 
Every  new  suggestion  furnished  talk  for  the  gossips  of 
the  village  and  the  babble  of  the  many  tongues  in  the 
two  educational  institutions.  Naturally,  the  discussion 
was  liveliest  among  the  young  ladies.  Here  is  an  ex 
tract  from  a  letter  of  one  of  these  young  ladies,  who, 
having  received  at  her  birth  the  ever-pleasing  name 
of  Mary,  saw  fit  to  have  herself  called  Mollie  in  the 
catalogue  and  in  her  letters.  The  old  postmaster  of 
the  town  to  which  her  letter  was  directed  took  it  up 
to  stamp,  and  read  on  the  envelope  the  direction  to 
"  Miss  Lulu  Pinrow."  He  brought  the  stamp  down 
with  a  vicious  emphasis,  coming  very  near  blotting  out 
the  nursery  name,  instead  of  cancelling  the  postage- 
stamp.  "  Lulu !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  should  like  to 
know  if  that  great  strapping  girl  is  n't  out  of  her 
cradle  yet!  I  suppose  Miss  Louisa  will  think  that 
belongs  to  her,  but  I  saw  her  christened  and  I  heard 
the  name  the  minister  gave  her,  and  it  was  n't  '  Lulu,' 
or  any  such  baby  nonsense."  And  so  saying,  he  gave 
it  a  fling  to  the  box  marked  P,  as  if  it  burned  his 
fingers.  Why  a  grown-up  young  woman  allowed  her 
self  to  be  cheapened  in  the  way  so  many  of  them  do 
by  the  use  of  names  which  become  them  as  well  as  the 
frock  of  a  ten-year-old  schoolgirl  would  become  a 
graduate  of  the  Corinna  Institute,  the  old  postmaster 
could  not  guess.  He  was  a  queer  old  man. 

The  letter  thus  scornfully  treated  runs  over  with  a 
young  girl's  written  loquacity  :  — 

"  Oh,  Lulu,  there  is  such  a  sensation  as  you  never 
saw  or  heard  of  '  in  all  your  born  days,'  as  mamma 
used  to  .°ay.  He  has  been  at  the  village  for  some 
time,  but  lately  we  have  had  —  oh,  the  weirdest  stories 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  67 

about  him  !  '  The  Mysterious  Stranger  is  the  name 
some  give  him,  but  we  girls  call  him  the  Sachem,  be 
cause  he  paddles  about  in  an  Indian  canoe.  If  I 
should  tell  you  all  the  things  that  are  said  about  him 
I  should  use  up  all  my  paper  ten  times  over.  He  has 
never  made  a  visit  to  the  Institute,  and  none  of  the 
girls  have  ever  spoken  to  him,  but  the  people  at  the 
village  say  he  is  very,  very  handsome.  We  are  dying 
to  get  a  look  at  him,  of  course  —  though  there  is  a 
horrid  story  about  him  —  that  he  has  the  evil  eye  — 
did  you  ever  hear  about  the  evil  eye?  If  a  person 
who  is  born  with  it  looks  at  you,  you  die,  or  something 
happens  —  awful  —  is  n't  it  ? 

"  The  rector  says  he  never  goes  to  church,  but  then 
you  know  a  good  many  of  the  people  that  pass  the 
summer  at  the  village  never  do  —  they  think  their 
religion  must  have  vacations  —  that 's  what  I  Ve 
heard  they  say  —  vacations,  just  like  other  hard  work 
—  it  ought  not  to  be  hard  work,  I  'm  sure,  but  I  sup 
pose  they  feel  so  about  it.  Should  you  feel  afraid 
to  have  him  look  at  you?  Some  of  the  girls  say 
they  would  n't  have  him  for  the  whole  world,  but  1 
should  ii't  mind  it  —  especially  if  I  had  on  my  eye 
glasses.  Do  you  suppose  if  there  is  anything  in  the 
evil  eye  it  would  go  through  glass  ?  I  don't  believe  it. 
Do  you  think  blue  eye-glasses  would  be  better  than 
common  ones  ?  Don't  laugh  at  me  —  they  tell  such 
weird  stories!  The  Terror  —  Lurida  Vincent,  you 
know  —  makes  fun  of  all  they  say  about  it,  but  then 
she  '  knows  everything  and  does  n't  believe  anything,' 
the  girls  say  —  Well,  I  should  be  awfully  scared,  I 
know,  if  anybody  that  had  the  evil  eye  should  loolc  at 
me  —  but  —  oh,  I  don't  know  —  but  if  it  was  a  young 
man  —  and  if  he  was  very  —  very  good-looking  —  I 


68  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

think  —  perhaps  I  would  run  the  risk  —  but  don't  tell 
anybody  I  said  any  such  horrid  thing  —  and  burn  this 
letter  right  up  —  there  's  a  dear  good  girl." 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  no  reader  will  doubt  the 
genuineness  of  this  letter.  There  are  not  quite  so 
many  "  awfuls"  and  "  awfullys  "  as  one  expects  to  find 
in  young  ladies'  letters,  but  there  are  two  "  weirds," 
which  may  be  considered  a  fair  allowance.  How  it 
happened  that  "  jolly  "  did  not  show  itself  can  hardly 
be  accounted  for ;  no  doubt  it  turns  up  two  or  three 
times  at  least  in  the  postscript. 

Here  is  an  extract  from  another  letter.  This  was 
from  one  of  the  students  of  Stoughton  University  to 
a  friend  whose  name  as  it  was  written  on  the  envelope 
was  Mr.  Frank  Mayfield.  The  old  postmaster  who 
found  fault  with  Miss  "  Lulu's  "  designation  would 
probably  have  quarrelled  with  this  address,  if  it  had 
come  under  his  eye.  "  Frank  "  is  a  very  pretty,  pleas 
ant-sounding  name,  and  it  is  not  strange  that  many 
persons  use  it  in  common  conversation  all  their  days 
when  speaking  of  a  friend.  Were  they  really  chris 
tened  by  that  name,  any  of  these  numerous  Franks  ? 
Perhaps  they  were,  and  if  so  there  is  nothing  to  be 
said.  But  if  not,  was  the  baptismal  name  Francis  or 
Franklin  ?  The  mind  is  apt  to  fasten  in  a  very  per 
verse  and  unpleasant  way  upon  this  question,  which 
too  often  there  is  no  possible  way  of  settling.  One 
might  hope,  if  he  outlived  the  bearer  of  the  appella 
tion,  to  get  at  the  fact ;  but  since  even  gravestones 
have  learned  to  use  the  names  belonging  to  childhood 
and  infancy  in  their  solemn  record,  the  generation 
which  docks  its  Christian  names  in  such  an  un-Chris- 
tian  way  will  bequeath  whole  churchyards  full  of  rid 
dles  to  posterity.  How  it  will  puzzle  and  distress  the 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  69 

historians  and  antiquarians  of  a  coming  generation  to 
settle  what  was  the  real  name  of  Dan  and  Bert  and 
"  Billy,"  which  last  is  legible  on  a  white  marble  slab, 
raised  in  memory  of  a  grown  person,  in  a  certain 
burial-ground  in  a  town  in  Essex  County,  Massachu 
setts  ! 

But  in  the  mean  time  we  are  forgetting  the  letter 
directed  to  Mr.  Frank  Mayfield. 

"  DEAR  FRANK,  —  Hooray  !     Hurrah  !     Eah  ! 

"  I  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  '  The  Mysterious 
Stranger '  !  It  happened  by  a  queer  sort  of  accident, 
which  came  pretty  near  relieving  you  of  the  duty  of 
replying  to  this  letter.  I  was  out  in  my  little  boat, 
which  carries  a  sail  too  big  for  her,  as  I  know  and 
ought  to  have  remembered.  One  of  those  fitful  flaws 
of  wind  to  which  the  lake  is  so  liable  struck  the  sail 
suddenly,  and  over  went  my  boat.  My  feet  got  tan 
gled  in  the  sheet  somehow,  and  I  could  not  get  free. 
I  had  hard  work  to  keep  my  head  above  water,  and  I 
struggled  desperately  to  escape  from  my  toils  ;  for  if 
the  boat  were  to  go  down  I  should  be  dragged  down 
with  her.  I  thought  of  a  good  many  things  in  the 
course  of  some  four  or  five  minutes,  I  can  tell  you, 
and  I  got  a  lesson  about  time  better  than  anything 
Kant  and  all  the  rest  of  them  have  to  say  of  it. 
After  I  had  been  there  about  an  ordinary  lifetime,  I 
saw  a  white  canoe  making  toward  me,  and  I  knew 
that  our  shy  young  gentleman  was  coming  to  help  me, 
and  that  we  should  become  acquainted  without  an  in 
troduction.  So  it  was,  sure  enough.  He  saw  what 
the  trouble  was,  managed  to  disentangle  my  feet  with 
out  drowning  me  in  the  process  or  upsetting  his  little 
flimsy  craft,  and,  as  I  was  somewhat  tired  with  my 
struggle,  took  me  in  tow  and  carried  me  to  the  land- 


70  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

ing  where  he  kept  his  canoe.  I  can't  say  that  there  is 
anything  odd  about  his  manners  or  his  way  of  talk. 
I  judge  him  to  be  a  native  of  one  of  our  Northern 
States,  —  perhaps  a  New  Englander.  He  has  lived 
abroad  during  some  parts  of  his  life.  He  is  not  an 
artist,  as  it  was  at  one  time  thought  he  might  be.  He 
is  a  good-looking  fellow,  well  developed,  manly  in  ap 
pearance,  with  nothing  to  excite  special  remark  unless 
it  be  a  certain  look  of  anxiety  or  apprehension  which 
comes  over  him  from  time  to  time.  You  remember 
our  old  friend  Squire  B.,  whose  companion  was  killed 
by  lightning  when  he  was  standing  close  to  him.  You 
know  the  look  he  had  whenever  anything  like  a  thun 
dercloud  came  up  in  the  sky.  Well,  I  should  say 
there  was  a  look  like  that  came  over  this  Maurice 
Kirkwood's  face  every  now  and  then.  I  noticed  that 
he  looked  round  once  or  twice  as  if  to  see  whether 
some  object  or  other  was  in  sight.  There  was  a  little 
rustling  in  the  grass  as  if  of  footsteps,  and  this  look 
came  over  his  features.  A  rabbit  ran  by  us,  and  I 
watched  to  see  if  he  showed  any  sign  of  that  antipa 
thy  we  have  heard  so  much  of,  but  he  seemed  to  be 
pleased  watching  the  creature. 

"  If  you  ask  me  what  my  opinion  is  about  this 
Maurice  Kirkwood,  I  think  he  is  eccentric  in  his  habit 
of  life,  but  not  what  they  call  a  '  crank '  exactly.  He 
talked  well  enough  about  such  matters  as  we  spoke 
of,  —  the  lake,  the  scenery  in  general,  the  climate. 
I  asked  him  to  come  over  and  take  a  look  at  the  col 
lege.  He  did  n't  promise,  but  I  should  not  be  sur 
prised  if  I  should  get  him  over  there  some  day.  I 
asked  him  why  he  did  n't  go  to  the  Pansophian  meet 
ings.  He  did  n't  give  any  reason,  but  he  shook  his 
head  in  a  very  peculiar  way,  as  much  as  to  say  that  it 
was  impossible. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  71 

"  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  is  nothing  more  than  the 
same  feeling  of  dread  of  human  society,  or  dislike  for 
it,  which  under  the  name  of  religion  used  to  drive 
men  into  caves  and  deserts.  What  a  pity  that  Prot 
estantism  does  not  make  special  provision  for  all  the 
freaks  of  individual  character !  If  we  had  a  little 
more  faith  and  a  few  more  caverns,  or  convenient 
places  for  making  them,  we  should  have  hermits  in 
these  holes  as  thick  as  woodchucks  or  prairie  dogs.  I 
should  like  to  know  if  you  never  had  the  feeling, 

'  Oh,  that  the  desert  were  my  dwelling-place  ! ' 

I  know  what  your  answer  will  be,  of  course.  You  will 
say,  '  Certainly, 

"  With  one  fair  spirit  for  my  minister  ; "  ' 

but  I  mean  alone,  —  all  alone.  Don't  you  ever  feel  as 
if  you  should  like  to  have  been  a  pillar-saint  in  the 
days  when  faith  was  as  strong  as  lye  (spelt  with  a  y), 
instead  of  being  as  weak  as  dish-water?  (Jerry  is 
looking  over  my  shoulder,  and  says  this  pun  is  too  bad 
to  send,  and  a  disgrace  to  the  University  —  but  never 
mind.)  /  often  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  roost  on  a 
pillar  a  hundred  feet  high,  —  yes,  and  have  it  soaped 
from  top  to  bottom.  Would  n't  it  be  fun  to  look  down 
at  the  bores  and  the  duns  ?  Let  us  get  up  a  pillar- 
roosters'  association.  (Jerry  —  still  looking  over  — 
says  there  is  an  absurd  contradiction  in  the  idea.) 

"  What  a  matter-of-fact  idiot  Jerry  is  ! 

"  How  do  you  like  looking  over,  Mr.  Inspector- 
general  ?  " 

The  reader  will  not  get  much  information  out  of 
this  lively  young  fellow's  letter,  but  he  may  get  a  lit 
tle.  It  is  something  to  know  that  the  mysterious 


72  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

resident  of  Arrowhead  Village  did  not  look  nor  talk 
like  a  crazy  person ;  that  he  was  of  agreeable  aspect 
and  address,  helpful  when  occasion  offered,  and  had 
nothing  about  him,  so  far  as  yet  appeared,  to  prevent 
his  being  an  acceptable  member  of  society. 

Of  course  the  people  in  the  village  could  never  be 
contented  without  learning  everything  there  was  to  be 
learned  about  their  visitor.  All  the  city  papers  were 
examined  for  advertisements.  If  a  cashier  had  ab 
sconded,  if  a  broker  had  disappeared,  if  a  railroad 
president  was  missing,  some  of  the  old  stories  would 
wake  up  and  get  a  fresh  currency,  until  some  new  cir 
cumstance  gave  rise  to  a  new  hypothesis.  Unconscious 
of  all  these  inquiries  and  fictions,  Maurice  Kirkwood 
lived  on  in  his  inoffensive  and  unexplained  solitude, 
and  seemed  likely  to  remain  an  unsolved  enigma.  The 
"  Sachem  "  of  the  boating  girls  became  the  "  Sphinx  " 
of  the  village  ramblers,  and  it  was  agreed  on  all  hands 
that  Egypt  did  not  hold  any  hieroglyphics  harder  to 
make  out  than  the  meaning  of  this  young  man's  odd 
way  of  living. 


V. 

THE  ENIGMA   STUDIED. 

IT  was  a  curious,  if  it  was  not  a  suspicious,  circum 
stance  that  a  young  man,  seemingly  in  good  health,  of 
comely  aspect,  looking  as  if  made  for  companionship, 
should  keep  himself  apart  from  all  the  world  around 
him  in  a  place  where  there  was  a  general  feeling  of 
good  neighborhood  and  a  pleasant  social  atmosphere. 
The  Public  Library  was  a  central  point  which  brought 
people  together.  The  Pansophian  Society  did  a  great 
deal  to  make  them  acquainted  with  each  other,  for 
many  of  the  meetings  were  open  to  outside  visitors, 
and  the  subjects  discussed  in  the  meetings  furnished 
the  material  for  conversation  in  their  intervals.  A 
card  of  invitation  had  been  sent  by  the  Secretary  to 
Maurice,  in  answer  to  which  Paolo  carried  back  a  po 
lite  note  of  regret.  The  paper  had  a  narrow  rim  of 
black,  implying  apparently  some  loss  of  relative  or 
friend,  but  not  any  very  recent  and  crushing  bereave 
ment.  This  refusal  to  come  to  the  meetings  of  the 
society  was  only  what  was  expected.  It  was  proper  to 
ask  him,  but  his  declining  the  invitation  showed  that 
he  did  not  wish  for  attentions  or  courtesies.  There  was 
nothing  further  to  be  done  to  bring  him  out  of  his 
shell,  and  seemingly  nothing  more  to  be  learned  about 
him  at  present. 

In  this  state  of  things  it  was  natural  that  all  which 
had  been  previously  gathered  by  the  few  who  had  seen 
or  known  anything  of  him  should  be  worked  over 


74  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

again.  When  there  is  no  new  ore  to  be  dug,  the  old 
refuse  heaps  are  looked  over  for  what  may  still  be 
found  in  them.  The  landlord  of  the  Anchor  Tavern, 
now  the  head  of  the  boarding-house,  talked  about 
Maurice,  as  everybody  in  the  village  did  at  one  time 
or  another.  He  had  not  much  to  say,  but  he  added  a 
fact  or  two. 

The  young  gentleman  was  good  pay,  —  so  they  all 
said.  Sometimes  he  paid  in  gold ;  sometimes  in  fresh 
bills,  just  out  of  the  bank.  He  trusted  his  man,  Mr. 
Paul,  with  the  money  to  pay  his  bills.  He  knew  some 
thing  about  horses;  he  showed  that  by  the  way  he 
handled  that  colt,  —  the  one  that  threw  the  hostler  and 
broke  his  collar-bone.  "  Mr.  Paul  come  down  to  the 
stable.  'Let  me  see  that  colt  you  all  'fraid  of,'  says 
he.  '  My  master,  he  ride  any  hoss,'  says  Paul.  *  You 
saddle  him,'  says  he ;  and  so  they  did,  and  Paul,  he 
led  that  colt  —  the  kickinest  and  ugliest  young  beast 
you  ever  see  in  your  life  —  up  to  the  place  where  his 
master,  as  he  calls  him,  and  he  lives.  What  does 
that  Kirkwood  do  but  clap  on  a  couple  of  long  spurs 
and  jump  on  to  that  colt's  back,  and  off  the  beast 
goes,  tail  up,  heels  flying,  standing  up  on  end,  trying 
all  sorts  of  capers,  and  at  last  going  it  full  run  for  a 
couple  of  miles,  till  he  'd  got  about  enough  of  it.  That 
colt  went  off  as  ferce  as  a  wild-cat,  and  come  back  as 
quiet  as  a  cosset  lamb.  A  man  that  pays  his  bills 
reg'lar,  in  good  money,  and  knows  how  to  handle  a 
hoss  is  three  quarters  of  a  gentleman,  if  he  is  n't  a 
whole  one,  —  and  most  likely  he  is  a  whole  one." 

So  spake  the  patriarch  of  the  Anchor  Tavern.  His 
wife  had  already  given  her  favorable  opinion  of  her 
former  guest.  She  now  added  something  to  her  de 
scription  as  a  sequel  to  her  husband's  remarks. 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  75 

"  I  call  him,"  she  said,  "  about  as  likely  a  young 
gentleman  as  ever  I  clapped  my  eyes  on.  He  is  rather 
slighter  than  I  like  to  see  a  young  man  of  his  age ;  if 
he  was  my  son,  I  should  like  to  see  him  a  little  more 
fleshy.  I  don't  believe  he  weighs  more  than  a  hun 
dred  and  thirty  or  forty  pounds.  Did  y'  ever  look  at 
those  eyes  of  his,  M'randy?  Just  as  blue  as  succory 
flowers.  I  do  like  those  light-complected  young  fel 
lows,  with  their  fresh  cheeks  and  their  curly  hair; 
somehow,  curly  hair  doos  set  off  anybody's  face.  He 
is  n't  any  foreigner,  for  all  that  he  talks  Italian  with 
that  Mr.  Paul  that 's  his  help.  He  looks  just  like  our 
kind  of  folks,  —  the  college  kind,  that 's  brought  up 
among  books,  and  is  handling  'em,  and  reading  of  'em, 
and  making  of  'em,  as  like  as  not,  all  their  lives.  All 
that  you  say  about  his  riding  the  mad  colt  is  just  what 
I  should  think  he  was  up  to,  for  he  's  as  spry  as  a 
squirrel ;  you  ought  to  see  him  go  over  that  fence,  as  I 
did  once.  I  don't  believe  there 's  any  harm  in  that 
young  gentleman,  — I  don't  care  what  people  say.  I 
suppose  he  likes  this  place  just  as  other  people  like  it, 
and  cares  more  for  walking  in  the  woods  and  paddling 
about  in  the  water  than  he  doos  for  company ;  and  if 
he  doos,  whose  business  is  it,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

The  third  of  the  speakers  was  Miranda,  who  had 
her  own  way  of  judging  people. 

"  I  never  see  him  but  two  or  three  times,"  Miranda 
said.  "  I  should  like  to  have  waited  on  him,  and  got 
a  chance  to  look  stiddy  at  him  when  he  was  eatin'  his 
vittles.  That 's  the  time  to  watch  folks,  when  their 
jaws  get  a-goin'  and  their  eyes  are  on  what 's  afore  'em. 
Do  you  remember  that  chap  the  sheriff  come  and  took 
away  when  we  kep'  tahvern  ?  Eleven  year  ago  it  was, 
couie  nex'  Thanksgivin'  time.  A  mighty  grand  gen- 


76  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tleman  from  the  City  he  set  up  for.  I  watched  him, 
and  I  watched  him.  Says  I,  I  don't  believe  you  're  no 
gentleman,  says  I.  He  eat  with  his  knife,  and  that 
ain't  the  way  city  folks  eats.  Every  time  I  handed 
him  anything  I  looked  closeter  and  closeter.  Them 
whiskers  never  growed  on  them  cheeks,  says  I  to  my 
self.  Them  's  paper  collars,  says  I.  That  dimun  in 
your  shirt-front  hain't  got  no  life  to  it,  says  I.  I 
don't  believe  it 's  nothin'  more  'n  a  bit  o'  winderglass. 
So  says  I  to  Pushee,  '  You  jes'  step  out  and  get  the 
sheriff  to  come  in  and  take  a  look  at  that  chap.'  I 
knowed  he  was  after  a  fellah.  He  come  right  in,  an' 
he  goes  up  to  the  chap.  '  Why,  Bill,'  says  he,  '  I  'm 
mighty  glad  to  see  yer.  We  've  had  the  hole  in  the 
wall  you  got  out  of  mended,  and  I  want  your  company 
to  come  and  look  at  the  old  place,'  says  he,  and  he 
pulls  out  a  couple  of  handcuffs  and  has  'em  on  his 
wrists  in  less  than  no  time,  an'  off  they  goes  together ! 
I  know  one  thing  about  that  young  gentleman,  any 
how,  —  there  ain't  no  better  judge  of  what 's  good  eat- 
in'  than  he  is.  I  cooked  him  some  maccaroni  myself 
one  day,  and  he  sends  word  to  me  by  that  Mr.  Paul, 
'  Tell  Miss  Miranda,'  says  he,  '  that  the  Pope  o'  Rome 
don't  have  no  better  cooked  maccaroni  than  what  she 
sent  up  to  me  yesterday,'  says  he.  I  don'  know 
much  about  the  Pope  o'  Rome  except  that  he 's  a  Ro 
man  Catholic,  and  I  don'  know  who  cooks  for  him, 
whether  it 's  a  man  or  a  woman  ;  but  when  it  comes  to 
a  dish  o'  maccaroni,  I  ain't  afeard  of  their  shefs,  as 
they  call  'em,  —  them  he-cooks  that  can't  serve  up  a 
cold  potater  without  callin'  it  by  some  name  nobody 
can  say  after  'em.  But  this  gentleman  knows  good 
cookin',  and  that 's  as  good  a  sign  of  a  gentleman  as  J 
want  to  tell  'em  by." 


VI. 

STILL   AT   FAULT. 

THE  house  in  which  Maurice  Kirkwood  had  taken 
up  his  abode  was  not  a  very  inviting  one.  It  was  old, 
and  had  been  left  in  a  somewhat  dilapidated  and  dis 
orderly  condition  by  the  tenants  who  had  lived  in  the 
part  which  Maurice  now  occupied.  They  had  piled 
their  packing-boxes  in  the  cellar,  with  broken  chairs, 
broken  china,  and  other  household  wrecks.  A  cracked 
mirror  lay  on  an  old  straw  mattress,  the  contents  of 
which  were  airing  themselves  through  wide  rips  and 
rents.  A  lame  clothes-horse  was  saddled  with  an  old 
rug  fringed  with  a  ragged  border,  out  of  which  all  the 
colors  had  been  completely  trodden.  No  woman  would 
have  gone  into  a  house  in  such  a  condition.  But  the 
young  man  did  not  trouble  himself  much  about  such 
matters,  and  was  satisfied  when  the  rooms  which  were 
to  be  occupied  by  himself  and  his  servant  were  made 
decent  and  tolerably  comfortable.  During  the  fine 
season  all  this  was  not  of  much  consequence,  and  if 
Maurice  made  up  his  mind  to  stay  through  the  winter 
he  would  have  his  choice  among  many  more  eligible 
places. 

The  summer  vacation  of  the  Corinna  Institute  had 
now  arrived,  and  the  young  ladies  had  scattered  to 
their  homes.  Among  the  graduates  of  the  year  were 
Miss  Euthymia  Tower  and  Miss  Lurida  Vincent,  who 
had  now  returned  to  their  homes  in  Arrowhead  Vil- 


78  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

lage.  They  were  both  glad  to  rest  after  the  long  final 
examinations  and  the  exercises  of  the  closing  day,  in 
which  each  of  them  had  borne  a  conspicuous  part.  It 
was  a  pleasant  life  they  led  in  the  village,  which  was 
lively  enough  at  this  season.  Walking,  riding,  driv 
ing,  boating,  visits  to  the  Library,  meetings  of  the 
Pansophian  Society,  hops,  and  picnics  made  the  time 
pass  very  cheerfully,  and  soon  showed  their  restoring 
influences.  The  Terror's  large  eyes  did  not  wear  the 
dull,  glazed  look  by  which  they  had  too  often  betrayed 
the  after  effects  of  over-excitement  of  the  strong  and 
active  brain  behind  them.  The  Wonder  gained  a 
fresher  bloom,  and  looked  full  enough  of  life  to  radiate 
vitality  into  a  statue  of  ice.  They  had  a  boat  of  their 
own,  in  which  they  passed  many  delightful  hours  on 
the  lake,  rowing,  drifting,  reading,  telling  of  what  had 
been,  dreaming  of  what  might  be. 

The  Library  was  one  of  the  chief  centres  of  the 
fixed  population,  and  visited  often  by  strangers.  The 
old  Librarian  was  a  peculiar  character,  as  these  offi 
cials  are  apt  to  be.  They  have  a  curious  kind  of 
knowledge,  sometimes  immense  in  its  way.  They 
know  the  backs  of  books,  their  title-pages,  their  popu 
larity  or  want  of  it,  the  class  of  readers  who  call 
for  particular  works,  the  value  of  different  editions, 
and  a  good  deal  besides.  Their  minds  catch  up  hints 
from  all  manner  of  works  on  all  kinds  of  subjects. 
They  will  give  a  visitor  a  fact  and  a  reference  which 
they  are  surprised  to  find  they  remember  and  which 
the  visitor  might  have  hunted  for  a  year.  Every  good 
librarian,  every  private  book-owner,  who  has  grown 
into  his  library,  finds  he  has  a  bunch  of  nerves  going 
to  every  bookcase,  a  branch  to  every  shelf,  and  a  twig 
to  every  book.  These  nerves  get  very  sensitive  in  old 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  79 

librarians,  sometimes,  and  they  do  not  like  to  have  a 
volume  meddled  with  any  more  than  they  would  like 
to  have  their  naked  eyes  handled.  They  come  to  feel 
at  last  that  the  books  of  a  great  collection  are  a  part, 
not  merely  of  their  own  property,  though  they  are  only 
the  agents  for  their  distribution,  but  that  they  are,  as 
it  were,  outlying  portions  of  their  own  organization. 
The  old  Librarian  was  getting  a  miserly  feeling  about 
his  books,  as  he  called  them.  Fortunately,  he  had  a 
young  lady  for  his  assistant,  who  was  never  so  happy 
as  when  she  could  find  the  work  any  visitor  wanted 
and  put  it  in  his  hands,  —  or  her  hands,  for  there  were 
more  readers  among  the  wives  and  daughters,  and 
especially  among  the  aunts,  than  there  were  among 
their  male  relatives.  The  old  Librarian  knew  the 
books,  but  the  books  seemed  to  know  the  young  assist 
ant  ;  so  it  looked,  at  least,  to  the  impatient  young  peo 
ple  who  wanted  their  services. 

Maurice  had  a  good  many  volumes  of  his  own,  —  a 
great  many,  according  to  Paolo's  account ;  but  Paolo's 
ideas  were  limited,  and  a  few  well-filled  shelves  seemed 
a  very  large  collection  to  him.  His  master  frequently 
sent  him  to  the  Public  Library  for  books,  which  some 
what  enlarged  his  notions ;  still,  the  Signer  was  a 
very  learned  man,  he  was  certain,  and  some  of  his 
white  books  (bound  in  vellum  and  richly  gilt)  were 
more  splendid,  according  to  Paolo,  than  anything  in 
the  Library. 

There  was  no  little  curiosity  to  know  what  were  the 
books  that  Maurice  was  in  the  habit  of  taking  out, 
and  the  Librarian's  record  was  carefully  searched  by 
some  of  the  more  inquisitive  investigators.  The  list 
proved  to  be  a  long  and  varied  one.  It  would  imply 
a  considerable  knowledge  of  modern  languages  and  of 


80  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

the  classics;  a  liking  for  mathematics  and  physics, 
especially  all  that  related  to  electricity  and  magnet 
ism  ;  a  fancy  for  the  occult  sciences,  if  there  is  any 
propriety  in  coupling  these  words ;  and  a  whim  for 
odd  and  obsolete  literature,  like  the  Parthenologia  of 
Fortunius  Licetus,  the  quaint  treatise  "  De  Sternuta- 
tione,"  books  about  alchemy,  and  witchcraft,  appari 
tions,  and  modern  works  relating  to  Spiritualism. 
With  these  were  the  titles  of  novels  and  now  and  then 
of  books  of  poems ;  but  it  may  be  taken  for  granted 
that  his  own  shelves  held  the  works  he  was  most  fre 
quently  in  the  habit  of  reading  or  consulting.  Not 
much  was  to  be  made  out  of  this  beyond  the  fact  of 
wide  scholarship,  —  more  or  less  deep  it  might  be,  but 
at  any  rate  implying  no  small  mental  activity ;  for  he 
appeared  to  read  very  rapidly,  at  any  rate  exchanged 
the  books  he  had  taken  out  for  new  ones  very  fre 
quently.  To  judge  by  his  reading,  he  was  a  man  of 
letters.  But  so  wide-reading  a  man  of  letters  must 
have  an  object,  a  literary  purpose  in  all  probability. 
Why  should  not  he  be  writing  a  novel?  Not  a  novel 
of  society,  assuredly,  for  a  hermit  is  not  the  person  to 
report  the  talk  and  manners  of  a  world  which  he  has 
nothing  to  do  with.  Novelists  and  lawyers  understand 
the  art  of  "  cramming  "  better  than  any  other  persons 
in  the 'world.  Why  should  not  this  young  man  be 
working  up  the  picturesque  in  this  romantic  region  to 
serve  as  a  background  for  some  story  with  magic,  per 
haps,  and  mysticism,  and  hints  borrowed  from  science, 
and  all  sorts  of  out-of-the-way  knowledge  which  his 
odd  and  miscellaneous  selection  of  books  furnished 
him  ?  That  might  be,  or  possibly  he  was  only  read 
ing  for  amusement.  Who  could  say  ? 

The  funds  of  the  Public  Library  of  Arrowhead  Vil 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  81 

lage  allowed  the  managers  to  purchase  many  books 
out  of  the  common  range  of  reading.  The  two  learned 
people  of  the  village  were  the  rector  and  the  doctor. 
These  two  worthies  kept  up  the  old  controversy  be 
tween  the  professions,  which  grows  out  of  the  fact 
that  one  studies  nature  from  below  upwards,  and  the 
other  from  above  downwards.  The  rector  maintained 
that  physicians  contracted  a  squint  which  turns  their 
eyes  inwardly,  while  the  muscles  which  roll  their  eyes 
upward  become  palsied.  The  doctor  retorted  that 
theological  students  developed  a  third  eyelid,  —  the 
nictitating  membrane,  which  is  so  well  known  in  birds, 
and  which  serves  to  shut  out,  not  all  light,  but  all  the 
light  they  do  not  want.  Their  little  skirmishes  did 
not  prevent  their  being  very  good  friends,  who  had  a 
common  interest  in  many  things  and  many  persons. 
Both  were  on  the  committee  which  had  the  care  of  the 
Library  and  attended  to  the  purchase  of  books.  Each 
was  scholar  enough  to  know  the  wants  of  scholars,  and 
disposed  to  trust  the  judgment  of  the  other  as  to  what 
books  should  be  purchased.  Consequently,  the  clergy 
man  secured  the  addition  to  the  Library  of  a  good 
many  old  theological  works  which  the  physician  would 
have  called  brimstone  divinity,  and  held  to  be  just  the 
thing  to  kindle  fires  with,  —  good  books  still  for  those 
who  know  how  to  use  them,  oftentimes  as  awful  exam 
ples  of  the  extreme  of  disorganization  the  whole  moral 
system  may  undergo  when  a  barbarous  belief  has 
strangled  the  natural  human  instincts.  The  physician, 
in  the  mean  time,  acquired  for  the  collection  some  of 
those  medical  works  where  one  may  find  recorded 
various  rare  and  almost  incredible  cases,  which  may 
not  have  their  like  for  a  whole  century,  and  then  re 
peat  themselves,  so  as  to  give  a  new  lease  of  credibility 


82  A  MORTAL    ANTIPATHY. 

to  stories  which  had  come  to  be  looked  upon  as  fa 
bles. 

Both  the  clergyman  and  the  physician  took  a  very 
natural  interest  in  the  young  man  who  had  come  to 
reside  in  their  neighborhood  for  the  present,  perhaps 
for  a  long  period.  The  rector  would  have  been  glad 
to  see  him  at  church.  He  would  have  liked  more  es 
pecially  to  have  had  him  hear  his  sermon  on  the  Du 
ties  of  Young  Men  to  Society.  The  doctor,  mean 
while,  was  meditating  on  the  duties  of  society  to  young 
men,  and  wishing  that  he  could  gain  the  young  man's 
confidence,  so  as  to  help  him  out  of  any  false  habit  of 
mind  or  any  delusion  to  which  he  might  be  subject,  if 
he  had  the  power  of  being  useful  to  him. 

Dr.  Butts  was  the  leading  medical  practitioner,  not 
only  of  Arrowhead  Village,  but  of  all  the  surrounding 
region.  He  was  an  excellent  specimen  of  the  country 
doctor,  self-reliant,  self-sacrificing,  working  a  great 
deal  harder  for  his  living  than  most  of  those  who  call 
themselves  the  laboring  classes,  —  as  if  none  but  those 
whose  hands  were  hardened  by  the  use  of  farming  or 
mechanical  implements  had  any  work  to  do.  He  had 
that  sagacity  without  which  learning  is  a  mere  in- 
cumbrance,  and  he  had  also  a  fair  share  of  that  learn 
ing  without  which  sagacity  is  like  a  traveller  with  a 
good  horse,  but  who  cannot  read  the  directions  on  the 
guideboards.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be  taken  in  by 
names.  He  well  knew  that  oftentimes  very  innocent- 
sounding  words  mean  very  grave  disorders ;  that  all 
degrees  of  disease  and  disorder  are  frequently  con 
founded  under  the  same  term  ;  that  "  run  down  "  may 
stand  for  a  fatigue  of  mind  or  body  from  which  a  week 
or  a  month  of  rest  will  completely  restore  the  over 
worked  patient,  or  an  advanced  stage  of  a  mortal  ill 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  83 

ness;  that  "seedy"  may  signify  the  morning's  state 
of  feeling,  after  an  evening's  over-indulgence,  which 
calls  for  a  glass  of  soda-water  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  or 
a  dangerous  malady  which  will  pack  off  the  subject  of 
it,  at  the  shortest  notice,  to  the  south  of  France.  He 
knew  too  well  that  what  is  spoken  lightly  of  as  a 
"  nervous  disturbance  "  may  imply  that  the  whole  ma 
chinery  of  life  is  in  a  deranged  condition,  and  that 
every  individual  organ  would  groan  aloud  if  it  had 
any  other  language  than  the  terrible  inarticulate  one 
of  pain  by  which  to  communicate  with  the  conscious 
ness. 

When,  therefore,  Dr.  Butts  heard  the  word  anti- 
patia  he  did  not  smile,  and  say  to  himself  that  this 
was  an  idle  whim,  a  foolish  fancy,  which  the  young 
man  had  got  into  his  head.  Neither  was  he  satisfied 
to  set  down  everything  to  the  account  of  insanity, 
plausible  as  that  supposition  might  seem.  He  was 
prepared  to  believe  in  some  exceptional,  perhaps 
anomalous,  form  of  exaggerated  sensibility,  relating 
to  what  class  of  objects  he  could  not  at  present  con 
jecture,  but  which  was  as  vital  to  the  subject  of  it  as 
the  insulating  arrangement  to  a  piece  of  electrical  ma 
chinery.  With  this  feeling  he  began  to  look  into  the 
history  of  antipathies  as  recorded  in  all  the  books  and 
journals  on  which  he  could  lay  his  hands. 


The  holder  of  the  Portfolio  asks  leave  to  close  it 
for  a  brief  interval.  He  wishes  to  say  a  few  words  to 
his  readers,  before  offering  them  some  verses  which 
have  no  connection  with  the  narrative  now  in  prog 
ress. 


84  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

If  one  could  have  before  him  a  set  of  photographs 
taken  annually,  representing  the  same  person  as  he  or 
she  appeared  for  thirty  or  forty  or  fifty  years,  it  would 
be  interesting-  to  watch  the  gradual  changes  of  aspect 
from  the  age  of  twenty,  or  even  of  thirty  or  forty,  to 
that  of  threescore  and  ten.  The  face  might  be  an  un 
interesting  one ;  still,  as  sharing  the  inevitable  changes 
wrought  by  time,  it  would  be  worth  looking  at  as  it 
passed  through  the  curve  of  life,  —  the  vital  parabola, 
which  betrays  itself  in  the  symbolic  changes  of  the 
features.  An  inscription  is  the  same  thing,  whether 
we  read  it  on  slate-stone,  or  granite,  or  marble.  To 
watch  the  lights  and  shades,  the  reliefs  and  hol 
lows,  of  a  countenance  through  a  lifetime,  or  a  large 
part  of  it,  by  the  aid  of  a  continuous  series  of  pho 
tographs  would  not  only  be  curious ;  it  would  teach 
us  much  more  about  the  laws  of  physiognomy  than 
we  could  get  from  casual  and  unconnected  observa 
tions. 

The  same  kind  of  interest,  without  any  assumption 
of  merit  to  be  found  in  them,  I  would  claim  for  a 
series  of  annual  poems,  beginning  in  middle  life  and 
continued  to  what  many  of  my  correspondents  are 
pleased  to  remind  me  —  as  if  I  required  to  have  the 
fact  brought  to  my  knowledge  —  is  no  longer  youth. 
Here  is  the  latest  of  a  series  of  annual  poems  read 
during  the  last  thirty-four  years.  There  seems  to 
have  been  one  interruption,  but  there  may  have  been 
other  poems  not  recorded  or  remembered.  This,  the 
latest  poem  of  the  scries,  was  listened  to  by  the  scanty 
remnant  of  what  was  a  large  and  brilliant  circle  of 
classmates  and  friends  when  the  first  of  the  long  se 
ries  was  read  before  them,  then  in  the  flush  of  ardent 
manhood :  — 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  85 


THE  OLD  SONG. 

The  minstrel  of  the  classic  lay 

Of  love  and  wine  who  sings 
Still  found  the  fingers  run  astray 

That  touched  the  rebel  strings. 

Of  Cadmus  he  would  fain  have  sung1, 

Of  Atreus  and  his  line  ; 
But  all  the  jocund  echoes  rung 

With  songs  of  love  and  wine. 

Ah,  brothers  !  I  would  fain  have  caught 
Some  fresher  fancy's  gleam  ; 

My  truant  accents  find,  unsought, 
The  old  familiar  theme. 

Love,  Love  !  but  not  the  sportive  child 
With  shaft  and  twanging  bow, 

Whose  random  arrows  drove  us  wild 
Some  threescore  years  ago  ; 

Not  Eros,  with  his  joyous  laugh, 

The  urchin  blind  and  bare, 
But  Love,  with  spectacles  and  staff, 

And  scanty,  silvered  hair. 

Our  heads  with  frosted  locks  are  white, 
Our  roofs  are  thatched  with  snow, 

But  red,  in  chilling  winter's  spite, 
Our  hearts  and  hearthstones  glow. 

Our  old  acquaintance,  Time,  drops  in, 
And  while  the  running  sands 

Their  golden  thread  unheeded  spin, 
He  warms  his  frozen  hands. 

Stay,  winged  hours,  too  swift,  too  sweet, 

And  waft  this  message  o'er 
To  all  we  miss,  from  all  we  meet 

On  life's  fast-crumbling  shore  : 


86  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

Say  that  to  old  affection  true 
We  hug  the  narrowing  chain 

That  binds  our  hearts,  —  alas,  how  few 
The  links  that  yet  remain  ! 

The  fatal  touch  awaits  them  all 
That  turns  the  rocks  to  dust; 

From  year  to  year  they  break  and  fall,  -^= 
They  break,  but  never  rust. 

Say  if  one  note  of  happier  strain 
This  worn-out  harp  afford,  — 

One  throb  that  trembles,  not  in  vain,  — 
Their  memory  lent  its  chord. 

Say  that  when  Fancy  closed  her  wings 
And  Passion  quenched  his  fire, 

Love,  Love,  still  echoed  from  the  strings 
As  from  Anacreon's  lyre  ! 

January  8, 1885. 


VII. 

A  RECORD   OF  ANTIPATHIES. 

IN  thinking  the  whole  matter  over,  Dr.  Butts  felt 
convinced  that,  with  care  and  patience  and  watching 
his  opportunity,  he  should  get  at  the  secret,  which  so 
far  had  yielded  nothing  but  a  single  word.  It  might 
be  asked  why  he  was  so  anxious  to  learn  what,  from  all 
appearances,  the  young  stranger  was  unwilling  to  ex 
plain.  He  may  have  been  to  some  extent  infected  by 
the  general  curiosity  of  the  persons  around  him,  in 
which  good  Mrs.  Butts  shared,  and  which  she  had 
helped  to  intensify  by  revealing  the  word  dropped  by 
Paolo.  But  this  was  not  really  his  chief  motive.  He 
could  not  look  upon  this  young  man,  living  a  life  of 
unwholesome  solitude,  without  a  natural  desire  to  do 
all  that  his  science  and  his  knowledge  of  human  na 
ture  could  help  him  to  do  towards  bringing  him  into 
healthy  relations  with  the  world  about  him.  Still,  he 
would  not  intrude  upon  him  in  any  way.  He  would 
only  make  certain  general  investigations,  which  might 
prove  serviceable  in  case  circumstances  should  give 
him  the  right  to  counsel  the  young  man  as  to  his 
course  of  life.  The  first  thing  to  be  done  was  to  study 
systematically  the  whole  subject  of  antipathies.  Then, 
if  any  further  occasion  offered  itself,  he  would  be  ready 
to  take  advantage  of  it.  The  resources  of  the  Public 
Library  of  the  place  and  his  own  private  collection 
were  put  in  requisition  to  furnish  him  the  singular 
and  widely  scattered  facts  of  which  he  was  in  search. 


88  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

It  is  not  every  reader  who  will  care  to  follow  Dr. 
Butts  in  his  study  of  the  natural  history  of  antipa 
thies.  The  stories  told  about  them  are,  however,  very 
curious  ;  and  if  some  of  them  may  be  questioned,  there 
is  no  doubt  that  many  of  the  strangest  are  true,  and 
consequently  take  away  from  the  improbability  of  oth 
ers  which  we  are  disposed  to  doubt. 

But  in  the  first  place,  what  do  we  mean  by  an  an 
tipathy  ?  It  is  an  aversion  to  some  object,  which  may 
vary  in  degree  from  mere  dislike  to  mortal  horror. 
What  the  cause  of  this  aversion  is  we  cannot  say.  It 
acts  sometimes  through  the  senses,  sometimes  through 
the  imagination,  sometimes  through  an  unknown  chan 
nel.  The  relations  which  exist  between  the  human 
being  and  all  that  surrounds  him  vary  in  consequence 
of  some  adjustment  peculiar  to  each  individual.  The 
brute  fact  is  expressed  in  the  phrase  "  One  man's 
meat  is  another  man's  poison." 

In  studying  the  history  of  antipathies  the  doctor 
began  with  those  referable  to  the  sense  of  taste,  which 
are  among  the  most  common.  In  any  collection  of  a 
hundred  persons  there  will  be  found  those  who  cannot 
make  use  of  certain  articles  of  food  generally  accepta 
ble.  This  may  be  from  the  disgust  they  occasion  or 
the  effects  they  have  been  found  to  produce.  Every 
one  knows  individuals  who  cannot  venture  on  honey, 
or  cheese,  or  veal,  with  impunity.  Carlyle,  for  ex 
ample,  complains  of  having  veal  set  before  him,  —  a 
meat  he  could  not  endure.  There  is  a  whole  family 
connection  in  New  England,  and  that  a  very  famous 
one,  to  many  of  whose  members,  in  different  genera 
tions,  all  the  products  of  the  dairy  are  the  subjects  of 
a  congenital  antipathy.  Montaigne  says  there  are  per 
sons  who  dread  the  smell  of  apples  more  than  they 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  89 

would  dread  being  exposed  to  a  fire  of  musketry. 
The  readers  of  the  charming  story  "  A  Week  in  a 
French  Country-House "  will  remember  poor  Mon 
sieur  Jacque's  piteous  cry  in  the  night :  "  Ursula,  art 
thou  asleep  ?  Oh,  Ursula,  thou  sleepest,  but  I  cannot 
close  my  eyes.  Dearest  Ursula,  there  is  such  a  dread 
ful  smell !  Oh,  Ursula,  it  is  such  a  smell !  I  do  so 
wish  thou  couldst  smell  it !  Good-night,  my  angel ! 

Dearest !     I  have  found  them !  .  .  .    They  are 

apples  !  "  The  smell  of  roses,  of  peonies,  of  lilies,  has 
been  known  to  cause  faintness.  The  sight  of  various 
objects  has  had  singular  effects  on  some  persons.  A 
boar's  head  was  a  favorite  dish  at  the  table  of  great 
people  in  Marshal  d'Albret's  time ;  yet  he  used  to 
faint  at  the  sight  of  one.  It  is  not  uncommon  to  meet 
with  persons  who  faint  at  the  sight  of  blood.  One  of 
the  most  inveterately  pugnacious  of  Dr.  Butts's  college- 
mates  confessed  that  he  had  this  infirmity.  Stranger 
and  far  more  awkward  than  this  is  the  case  mentioned 
in  an  ancient  collection,  where  the  subject  of  the  an 
tipathy  fainted  at  the  sight  of  any  object  of  a  red 
color.  There  are  sounds,  also,  which  have  strange  ef 
fects  on  some  individuals.  Among  the  obnoxious 
noises  are  the  crumpling  of  silk  stuffs,  the  sound  of 
sweeping,  the  croaking  of  frogs.  The  effects  in  dif 
ferent  cases  have  been  spasms,  a  sense  of  strangling, 
profuse  sweating,  — all  showing  a  profound  disturb 
ance  of  the  nervous  system. 

All  these  effects  were  produced  by  impressions  on 
the  organs  of  sense,  seemingly  by  direct  agency  on 
certain  nerve  centres.  But  there  is  another  series  of 
cases  in  which  the  imagination  plays  a  larger  part  in 
the  phenomena.  Two  notable  examples  are  afforded 
in  the  lives  of  two  very  distinguished  personages. 


90  A  MOETAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Peter  the  Great  was  frightened,  when  an  infant,  by 
falling  from  a  bridge  into  the  water.  Long  afterward, 
when  he  had  reached  manhood,  this  hardy  and  reso 
lute  man  was  so  affected  by  the  sound  of  wheels  rat 
tling  over  a  bridge  that  he  had  to  discipline  himself 
by  listening  to  the  sound,  in  spite  of  his  dread  of  it,  in 
order  to  overcome  his  antipathy.  The  story  told  by 
Abbe*  Boileau  of  Pascal  is  very  similar  to  that  related 
of  Peter.  As  he  was  driving  in  his  coach  and  four 
over  the  bridge  at  Neuilly,  his  horses  took  fright  and 
ran  away,  and  the  leaders  broke  from  their  harness 
and  sprang  into  the  river,  leaving  the  wheel-horses 
and  the  carriage  on  the  bridge.  Ever  after  this  fright 
it  is  said  that  Pascal  had  the  terrifying  sense  that  he 
was  just  on  the  edge  of  an  abyss,  ready  to  fall  over. 

What  strange  early  impression  was  it  which  led  a 
certain  lady  always  to  shriek  aloud  if  she  ventured  to 
enter  a  church,  as  it  is  recorded  ?  The  old  and  simple 
way  of  accounting  for  it  would  be  the  scriptural  one, 
that  it  was  an  unclean  spirit  who  dwelt  in  her,  and 
who,  when  she  entered  the  holy  place  and  brought  her 
spiritual  tenant  into  the  presence  of  the  sacred  sym 
bols,  "  cried  with  a  loud  voice,  and  came  out  of  "  her. 
A  very  singular  case,  the  doctor  himself  had  recorded, 
and  which  the  reader  may  accept  as  authentic,  is  the 
following :  At  the  head  of  the  doctor's  front  stairs 
stood,  and  still  stands,  a  tall  clock,  of  early  date  and 
stately  presence.  A  middle-aged  visitor,  noticing  it 
as  he  entered  the  front  door,  remarked  that  he  should 
feel  a  great  unwillingness  to  pass  that  clock.  He 
could  not  go  near  one  of  those  tall  timepieces  without 
a  profound  agitation,  which  he  dreaded  to  undergo. 
This  very  singular  idiosyncrasy  he  attributed  to  a 
fright  when  he  was  an  infant  in  the  arms  of  his  nurse, 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  91 

She  was  standing  near  one  of  those  tall  clocks,  when 
the  cord  which  supported  one  of  its  heavy  leaden 
weights  broke,  and  the  weight  came  crashing  down  to 
the  bottom  of  the  case.  Some  effect  must  have  been 
produced  upon  the  pulpy  nerve  centres  from  which 
they  never  recovered.  Why  should  not  this  happen, 
when  we  know  that  a  sudden  mental  shock  may  be 
the  cause  of  insanity  ?  The  doctor  remembered  the 
verse  of  "  The  Ancient  Mariner  :  " 

"  I  moved  my  lips  ;  the  pilot  shrieked 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit  ; 
The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes 
And  prayed  where  he  did  sit. 
I  took  the  oars  ;  the  pilot's  boy, 
Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 
Laughed  loud  and  long,  and  all  the  while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro." 

This  is  only  poetry,  it  is  true,  but  the  poet  borrowed 
the  description  from  nature,  and  the  records  of  our 
asylums  could  furnish  many  cases  where  insanity  was 
caused  by  a  sudden  fright. 

More  than  this,  hardly  a  year  passes  that  we  do  not 
read  of  some  person,  a  child  commonly,  killed  out 
right  by  terror,  —  scared  to  death,  literally.  Sad 
cases  they  often  are,  in  which,  nothing  but  a  surprise 
being  intended,  the  shock  has  instantly  arrested  the 
movements  on  which  life  depends.  If  a  mere  instan 
taneous  impression  can  produce  effects  like  these,  such 
an  impression  might  of  course  be  followed  by  conse 
quences  less  fatal  or  formidable,  but  yet  serious  in 
their  nature.  If  here  and  there  a  person  is  killed,  as 
if  by  lightning,  by  a  sudden  startling  sight  or  sound, 
there  must  be  more  numerous  cases  in  which  a  terrible 
shock  is  produced  by  similar  apparently  insignificant 


92  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

causes,  —  a  shock  which  falls  short  of  overthrowing 
the  reason  and  does  not  destroy  life,  yet  leaves  a  last 
ing  effect  upon  the  subject  of  it. 

This  point,  then,  was  settled  in  the  mind  of  Dr. 
Butts,  namely,  that,  as  a  violent  emotion  caused  by  a 
sudden  shock  can  kill  or  craze  a  human  being,  there  is 
no  perversion  of  the  faculties,  no  prejudice,  no  change 
of  taste  or  temper,  no  eccentricity,  no  antipathy,  which 
such  a  cause  may  not  rationally  account  for.  He 
would  not  be  surprised,  he  said  to  himself,  to  find  that 
some  early  alarm,  like  that  which  was  experienced  by 
Peter  the  Great  or  that  which  happened  to  Pascal, 
had  broken  some  spring  in  this  young  man's  nature, 
or  so  changed  its  mode  of  action  as  to  account  for  the 
exceptional  remoteness  of  his  way  of  life.  But  how 
could  any  conceivable  antipathy  be  so  comprehensive 
as  to  keep  a  young  man  aloof  from  all  the  world,  and 
make  a  hermit  of  him?  He  did  not  hate  the  hu 
man  race  ;  that  was  clear  enough.  He  treated  Paolo 
with  great  kindness,  and  the  Italian  was  evidently 
much  attached  to  him.  He  had  talked  naturally  and 
pleasantly  with  the  young  man  he  had  helped  out  of 
his  dangerous  situation  when  his  boat  was  upset.  Dr. 
Butts  heard  that  he  had  once  made  a  short  visit  to 
this  young  man,  at  his  rooms  in  the  University.  It 
was  not  misanthropy,  therefore,  which  kept  him  soli 
tary.  What  could  be  broad  enough  to  cover  the  facts 
of  the  case  ?  Nothing  that  the  doctor  could  think  of, 
unless  it  were  some  color,  the  sight  of  which  acted  on 
him  as  it  did  on  the  individual  before  mentioned,  who 
could  not  look  at  anything  red  without  fainting.  Sup 
pose  this  were  a  case  of  the  same  antipathy.  How 
very  careful  it  would  make  the  subject  of  it  as  to 
where  he  went  and  with  whom  he  consorted !  Time 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  93 

and  patience  would  be  pretty  sure  to  bring  out  new 
developments,  and  physicians,  of  all  men  in  the  world, 
know  how  to  wait  as  well  as  how  to  labor. 

Such  were  some  of  the  crude  facts  as  Dr.  Butts 
found  them  in  books  or  gathered  them  from  his  own 
experience.  He  soon  discovered  that  the  story  had 
got  about  the  village  that  Maurice  Kirkwood  was  the 
victim  of  an  "  antipathy,"  whatever  that  word  might 
mean  in  the  vocabulary  of  the  people  of  the  place. 
If  he  suspected  the  channel  through  which  it  had 
reached  the  little  community,  and,  spreading  from  that 
centre,  the  country  round,  he  did  not  see  fit  to  make 
out  of  his  suspicions  a  domestic  casus  belli.  Paolo 
might  have  mentioned  it  to  others  as  well  as  to  him 
self.  Maurice  might  have  told  some  friend,  who  had 
divulged  it.  But  to  accuse  Mrs.  Butts,  good  Mrs. 
Butts,  of  petit  treason  in  telling  one  of  her  husband's 
professional  secrets  was  too  serious  a  matter  to  be 
thought  of.  He  would  be  a  little  more  careful,  he 
promised  himself,  the  next  time,  at  any  rate  ;  for  he 
had  to  concede,  in  spite  of  every  wish  to  be  charitable 
in  his  judgment,  that  it  was  among  the  possibilities 
that  the  worthy  lady  had  forgotten  the  rule  that  a  doc 
tor's  patients  must  put  their  tongues  out,  and  a  doctor's 
wife  must  keep  her  tongue  in. 


VIII. 

THE  PANSOPHIAN   SOCIETY. 

THE  Secretary  of  this  association  was  getting  some 
what  tired  of  the  office,  and  the  office  was  getting 
somewhat  tired  of  him.  It  occurred  to  the  members 
of  the  Society  that  a  little  fresh  blood  infused  into  it 
might  stir  up  the  general  vitality  of  the  organization. 
The  woman  suffragists  saw  no  reason  why  the  place 
of  Secretary  need  as  a  matter  of  course  be  filled  by  a 
person  of  the  male  sex.  They  agitated,  they  made 
domiciliary  visits,  they  wrote  notes  to  influential  citi 
zens,  and  finally  announced  as  their  candidate  the 
young  lady  who  had  won  and  worn  the  school  name  of 
"  The  Terror,"  who  was  elected.  She  was  just  the 
person  for  the  place :  wide  awake,  with  all  her  wits 
about  her,  full  of  every  kind  of  knowledge,  and, 
above  all,  strong  on  points  of  order  and  details  of 
management,  so  that  she  could  prompt  the  presiding 
officer,  to  do  which  is  often  the  most  essential  duty  of 
a  Secretary.  The  President,  the  worthy  rector,  was 
good  at  plain  sailing  in  the  track  of  the  common 
moralities  and  proprieties,  but  was  liable  to  get  mud 
dled  if  anything  came  up  requiring  swift  decision  and 
off-hand  speech.  The  Terror  had  schooled  herself  in 
the  debating  societies  of  the  Institute,  and  would  set 
up  the  President,  when  he  was  floored  by  an  awkward 
question,  as  easily  as  if  he  were  a  uinepin  which  had 
been  bowled  over. 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  95 

It  has  been  already  mentioned  that  the  Pansophian 
Society  received  communications  from  time  to  time 
from  writers  outside  of  its  own  organization.  Of  late 
these  had  been  becoming  more  frequent.  Many  of 
them  were  sent  in  anonymously,  and  as  there  were  nu 
merous  visitors  to  the  village,  and  two  institutions  not 
far  removed  from  it,  both  full  of  ambitious  and  intel 
ligent  young  persons,  it  was  often  impossible  to  trace 
the  papers  to  their  authors.  The  new  Secretary  was 
alive  with  curiosity,  and  as  sagacious  a  little  body  as 
one  might  find  if  in  want  of  a  detective.  She  could 
make  a  pretty  shrewd  guess  whether  a  paper  was 
written  by  a  young  or  old  person,  by  one  of  her  own 
sex  or  the  other,  by  an  experienced  hand  or  a  novice. 

Among  the  anonymous  papers  she  received  was  one 
which  exercised  her  curiosity  to  an  extraordinary  de 
gree.  She  felt  a  strong  suspicion  that  "  the  Sachem," 
as  the  boat-crews  used  to  call  him,  "  the  Eecluse," 
"  the  Night-Hawk,"  "  the  Sphinx,"  as  others  named 
him,  must  be  the  author  of  it.  It  appeared  to  her  the 
production  of  a  young  person  of  a  reflective,  poetical 
turn  of  mind.  It  was  not  a  woman's  way  of  writing ; 
at  least,  so  thought  the  Secretary.  The  writer  had 
travelled  much ;  had  resided  in  Italy,  among  other 
places.  But  so  had  many  of  the  summer  visitors  and 
residents  of  Arrowhead  Village.  The  handwriting 
was  not  decisive ;  it  had  some  points  of  resemblance 
with  the  pencilled  orders  for  books  which  Maurice 
sent  to  the  Library,  but  there  were  certain  differences, 
intentional  or  accidental,  which  weakened  this  evi 
dence.  There  was  an  undertone  in  the  essay  which 
was  in  keeping  with  the  mode  of  life  of  the  solitary 
stranger.  It  might  be  disappointment,  melancholy,  or 
only  the  dreamy  sadness  of  a  young  person  who  sees 


96  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

the  future  lie  is  to  climb,  not  as  a  smooth  ascent,  but  as 
overhanging  him  like  a  cliff,  ready  to  crush  him,  with 
all  his  hopes  and  prospects.  This  interpretation  may 
have  been  too  imaginative,  but  here  is  the  paper,  and 
the  reader  can  form  his  own  opinion :  — 

MY  THREE  COMPANIONS. 

"  I  have  been  from  my  youth  upwards  a  wanderer. 
I  do  not  mean  constantly  flitting  from  one  place  to  an 
other,  for  my  residence  has  often  been  fixed  for  con 
siderable  periods.  From  time  to  time  I  have  put 
down  in  a  note-book  the  impressions  made  upon  me 
by  the  scenes  through  which  I  have  passed.  I  have 
long  hesitated  whether  to  let  any  of  my  notes  appear 
before  the  public.  My  fear  has  been  that  they  were 
too  subjective,  to  use  the  metaphysician's  term,  —  that 
I  have  seen  myself  reflected  in  Nature,  and  not  the 
true  aspects  of  Nature  as  she  was  meant  to  be  under 
stood.  One  who  should  visit  the  Harz  Mountains 
would  see  —  might  see,  rather — his  own  colossal 
image  shape  itself  on  the  morning  mist.  But  if  in 
every  mist  that  rises  from  the  meadows,  in  every  cloud 
that  hangs  upon  the  mountain,  lie  always  finds  his 
own  reflection,  we  cannot  accept  him  as  an  interpreter 
of  the  landscape. 

"  There  must  be  many  persons  present  at  the  meet 
ings  of  the  Society  to  which  this  paper  is  offered  who 
have  had  experiences  like  that  of  its  author.  They 
have  visited  the  same  localities,  they  have  had  many  of 
the  same  thoughts  and  feelings.  Many,  I  have  no 
doubt.  Not  all,  —  no,  not  all.  Others  have  sought 
the  companionship  of  Nature ;  I  have  been  driven  to 
it.  Much  of  my  life  has  been  passed  in  that  commun 
ion.  These  pages  record  some  of  the  intimacies  I 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  97 

have  formed  with  her  under  some  of  her  various 
manifestations. 

"  I  have  lived  on  the  shore  of  the  great  ocean, 
where  its  waves  broke  wildest  and  its  voice  rose 
loudest. 

"  I  have  passed  whole  seasons  on  the  banks  of 
mighty  and  famous  rivers. 

"  I  have  dwelt  on  the  margin  of  a  tranquil  lake, 
and  floated  through  many  a  long,  long  summer  day 
on  its  clear  waters. 

"  I  have  learned  the  '  various  language '  of  Nature, 
of  which  poetry  has  spoken,  —  at  least,  I  have  learned 
some  words  and  phrases  of  it.  I  will  translate  some 
of  these  as  I  best  may  into  common  speech. 

"  The  OCEAN  says  to  the  dweller  on  its  shores :  — 

"  '  You  are  neither  welcome  nor  unwelcome.  I  do 
not  trouble  myself  with  the  living  tribes  that  come 
down  to  my  waters.  I  have  my  own  people,  of  an  older 
race  than  yours,  that  grow  to  mightier  dimensions 
than  your  mastodons  and  elephants ;  more  numerous 
than  all  the  swarms  that  fill  the  air  or  move  over  the 
thin  crust  of  the  earth.  Who  are  you  that  build  your 
gay  palaces  on  my  margin  ?  I  see  your  white  faces  as 
I  saw  the  dark  faces  of  the  tribes  that  came  before 
you,  as  I  shall  look  upon  the  unknown  family  of 
mankind  that  will  come  after  you.  And  what  is  your 
whole  human  family  but  a  parenthesis  in  a  single 
page  of  my  history  ?  The  raindrops  stereotyped  them 
selves  on  my  beaches  before  a  living  creature  left  his 
footprints  there.  This  horseshoe-crab  I  fling  at  your 
feet  is  of  older  lineage  than  your  Adam,  —  perhaps, 
indeed,  you  count  your  Adam  as  one  of  his  descend 
ants.  What  feeling  have  I  for  you  ?  Not  scorn,  — 
not  hatred,  —  not  love,  —  not  loathing.  No  !  —  indif- 

7 


98  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

f erence,  —  blank  indifference  to  you  and  your  affairs : 
that  is  my  feeling,  say  rather  absence  of  feeling,  as 
regards  you.  —  Oh  yes,  I  will  lap  your  feet,  I  will  cool 
you  in  the  hot  summer  days,  I  will  bear  you  up  in  my 
strong  arms,  I  will  rock  you  on  my  rolling  undulations, 
like  a  babe  in  his  cradle.  Am  I  not  gentle  ?  Am  I 
not  kind  ?  Am  I  not  harmless  ?  But  hark  !  The 
wind  is  rising,  and  the  wind  and  I  are  rough  play 
mates  !  What  do  you  say  to  my  voice  now  ?  Do  you 
see  my  foaming  lips  ?  Do  you  feel  the  rocks  tremble 
as  my  huge  billows  crash  against  them  ?  Is  not  my 
anger  terrible  as  I  dash  your  argosy,  your  thunder- 
bearing  frigate,  into  fragments,  as  you  would  crack  an 
eggshell  ?  —  No,  not  anger  ;  deaf,  blind,  unheeding  in 
difference,  —  that  is  all.  Out  of  me  all  things  arose  ; 
sooner  or  later,  into  me  all  things  subside.  All 
changes  around  me ;  I  change  not.  I  look  not  at  you, 
vain  man,  and  your  frail  transitory  concerns,  save  in 
momentary  glimpses :  I  look  on  the  white  face  of  my 
dead  mistress,  whom  I  follow  as  the  bridegroom  fol 
lows  the  bier  of  her  who  has  changed  her  nuptial 
raiment  for  the  shroud. 

" '  Ye  whose  thoughts  are  of  eternity,  come  dwell  at 
my  side.  Continents  and  islands  grow  old,  and  waste 
and  disappear.  The  hardest  rock  crumbles  ;  vegetable 
and  animal  kingdoms  come  into  being,  wax  great,  de 
cline,  and  perish,  to  give  way  to  others,  even  as  human 
dynasties  and  nations  and  races  come  and  go.  Look 
on  me!  "Time  writes  no  wrinkle"  on  my  forehead. 
Listen  to  me  !  All  tongues  are  spoken  on  my  shores, 
but  I  have  only  one  language :  the  winds  taught  me 
their  vowels  the  crags  and  the  sands  schooled  me  in 
my  rough  or  smooth  consonants.  Few  words  are 
mine  but  I  have  whispered  them  and  sung  them  and 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  99 

shouted  them  to  men  of  all  tribes  from  the  time  when 
the  first  wild  wanderer  strayed  into  my  awful  presence. 
Have  you  a  grief  that  gnaws  at  your  heart-strings? 
Come  with  it  to  my  shore,  as  of  old  the  priest  of  far- 
darting  Apollo  carried  his  rage  and  anguish  to  the 
margin  of  the  loud-roaring  sea.  There,  if  anywhere, 
you  will  forget  your  private  and  short-lived  woe,  for 
my  voice  speaks  to  the  infinite  and  the  eternal  in  your 
consciousness.' 

"  To  him  who  loves  the  pages  of  human  history,  who 
listens  to  the  voices  of  the  world  about  him,  who  fre 
quents  the  market  and  the  thoroughfare,  who  lives  in 
the  study  of  time  and  its  accidents  rather  than  in  the 
deeper  emotions,  in  abstract  speculation  and  spiritual 
contemplation,  the  RIVER  addresses  itself  as  his  nat 
ural  companion. 

"  '  Come  live  with  me.  I  am  active,  cheerful,  com 
municative,  a  natural  talker  and  story-teller.  I  am 
not  noisy,  like  the  ocean,  except  occasionally  when  I 
am  rudely  interrupted,  or  when  I  stumble  and  get  a 
fall.  When  I  am  silent  you  can  still  have  pleasure  in 
watching  my  changing  features.  My  idlest  babble, 
when  I  am  toying  with  the  trifles  that  fall  in  my  way, 
if  not  very  full  of  meaning,  is  at  least  musical.  I  am 
not  a  dangerous  friend,  like  the  ocean  ;  no  highway 
is  absolutely  safe,  but  my  nature  is  harmless,  and  the 
storms  that  strew  the  beaches  with  wrecks  cast  no  ru 
ins  upon  my  flowery  borders.  Abide  with  me,  and 
you  shall  not  die  of  thirst,  like  the  forlorn  wretches 
left  to  the  mercies  of  the  pitiless  salt  waves.  Trust 
yourself  to  me,  and  I  will  carry  you  far  on  your  jour 
ney,  if  we  are  travelling  to  tho  same  point  of  the  com 
pass.  If  I  sometimes  run  riot  and  overflow  your  mead- 


100  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

ows,  I  leave  fertility  behind  me  when  I  withdraw  to 
my  natural  channel.  Walk  by  my  side  toward  the 
place  of  my  destination.  I  will  keep  pace  with  you, 
and  you  shall  feel  my  presence  with  you  as  that  of  a 
self-conscious  being  like  yourself.  You  will  find  it 
hard  to  be  miserable  in  my  company ;  I  drain  you  of 
ill-conditioned  thoughts  as  I  carry  away  the  refuse  of 
your  dwelling  and  its  grounds.' 

"But  to  him  whom  the  ocean  chills  and  crushes 
with  its  sullen  indifference,  and  the  river  disturbs  with 
its  never-pausing  and  never-ending  story,  the  silent 
LAKE  shall  be  a  refuge  and  a  place  of  rest  for  his 
soul. 

"  '  Vex  not  yourself  with  thoughts  too  vast  for  your 
limited  faculties,'  it  says ;  '  yield  not  yourself  to  the 
babble  of  the  running  stream.  Leave  the  ocean,  which 
cares  nothing  for  you  or  any  living  thing  that  walks 
the  solid  earth ;  leave  the  river,  too  busy  with  its  own 
errand,  too  talkative  about  its  own  affairs,  and  find 
peace  with  me,  whose  smile  will  cheer  you,  whose 
whisper  will  soothe  you.  Come  to  me  when  the  morn 
ing  sun  blazes  across  my  bosom  like  a  golden  baldric ; 
come  to  me  in  the  still  midnight,  when  I  hold  the  in 
verted  firmament  like  a  cup  brimming  with  jewels,  nor 
spill  one  star  of  all  the  constellations  that  float  in  my 
ebon  goblet.  Do  you  know  the  charm  of  melancholy  ? 
Where  will  you  find  a  sympathy  like  mine  in  your 
hours  of  sadness  ?  Does  the  ocean  share  your  grief  ? 
Does  tho  river  listen  to  your  sighs?  The  salt  wave, 
that  called  to  you  from  under  last  month's  full  moon, 
to-day  is  dashing  on  the  rocks  of  Labrador ;  the  stream, 
that  ran  by  you  pure  and  sparkling,  has  swallowed  the 
poisonous  refuse  of  a  great  city,  and  is  creeping  to  its 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  101 

grave  in  the  wide  cemetery  that  buries  all  things  in 
its  tomb  of  liquid  crystal.  It  is  true  that  my  waters 
exhale  and  are  renewed  from  one  season  to  another ; 
but  are  your  features  the  same,  absolutely  the  same, 
from  year  to  year?  We  both  change,  but  we  know 
each  other  through  all  changes.  Am  I  not  mirrored 
in  those  eyes  of  yours  ?  And  does  not  Nature  plant 
me  as  an  eye  to  behold  her  beauties  while  she  is 
dressed  in  the  glories  of  leaf  and  flower,  and  draw 
the  icy  lid  over  my  shining  surface  when  she  stands 
naked  and  ashamed  in  the  poverty  of  winter  ? ' 

"  I  have  had  strange  experiences  and  sad  thoughts 
in  the  course  of  a  life  not  very  long,  but  with  a  record 
which  much  longer  lives  could  not  match  in  incident. 
Oftentimes  the  temptation  has  come  over  me  with 
dangerous  urgency  to  try  a  change  of  existence,  if 
such  change  is  a  part  of  human  destiny,  —  to  seek 
rest,  if  that  is  what  we  gain  by  laying  down  the  burden 
of  life.  I  have  asked  who  would  be  th?  friend  to 
whom  I  should  appeal  for  the  last  service  I  should 
have  need  of.  Ocean  was  there,  all  ready,  asking  no 
questions,  answering  none.  What  strange  voyages, 
downward  through  its  glaucous  depths,  upwards  to  its 
boiling  and  frothing  surface,  wafted  by  tides,  driven 
by  tempests,  disparted  by  rude  agencies  ;  one  remnant 
whitening  on  the  sands  of  a  northern  beach,  one  per 
haps  built  into  the  circle  of  a  coral  reef  in  the  Pacific, 
one  settling  to  the  floor  of  the  vast  laboratory  where 
continents  are  built,  to  emerge  in  far-off  ages !  What 
strange  companions  for  my  pall-bearers!  Unwieldy 
sea-monsters,  the  stories  of  which  are  counted  fables 
by  the  spectacled  collectors  who  think  their  catalogues 
have  exhausted  nature ;  naked- eyed  creatures,  staring, 


102  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

glaring,  nightmare-like  spectres  of  the  ghastly-green 
abysses ;  pulpy  islands,  with  life  in  gelatinous  immen 
sity,  —  what  a  company  of  hungry  heirs  at  every  ocean 
funeral !  No !  No !  Ocean  claims  great  multitudes, 
but  does  not  invite  the  solitary  who  would  fain  be  rid 
of  himself. 

"  Shall  I  seek  a  deeper  slumber  at  the  bottom  of  the 
lake  I  love  than  I  have  ever  found  when  drifting  idly 
over  its  surface?  No,  again.  I  do  not  want  the 
sweet,  clear  waters  to  know  me  in  the  disgrace  of  na 
ture,  when  life,  the  faithful  body-servant,  has  ceased 
caring  for  me.  That  must  not  be.  The  mirror  which 
has  pictured  me  so  often  shall  never  know  me  as  an 
unwelcome  object. 

"  If  I  must  ask  the  all-subduing  element  to  be  my 
last  friend,  and  lead  me  out  of  my  prison,  it  shall  be 
the  busy,  whispering,  not  unfriendly,  pleasantly  com 
panionable  river. 

"  But  Ocean  and  River  and  Lake  have  certain  rela 
tions  to  the  periods  of  human  life  which  they  who  are 
choosing  their  places  of  abode  should  consider.  Let 
the  child  play  upon  the  seashore.  The  wide  horizon 
gives  his  imagination  room  to  grow  in,  untrammelled. 
That  background  of  mystery,  without  which  life  is  a 
poor  mechanical  arrangement,  is  shaped  and  colored, 
so  far  as  it  can  have  outline,  or  any  hue  but  shadow, 
on  a  vast  canvas,  the  contemplation  of  which  enlarges 
and  enriches  the  sphere  of  consciousness.  The  mighty 
ocean  is  not  too  huge  to  symbolize  the  aspirations  and 
ambitions  of  the  yet  untried  soul  of  the  adolescent. 

"The  time  will  come  when  his  indefinite  mental 
horizon  has  found  a  solid  limit,  which  shuts  his  pros 
pect  in  narrower  bounds  than  he  would  have  thought 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  103 

could  content  him  in  the  years  of  undefined  possibil 
ities.  Then  he  will  find  the  river  a  more  natural  in 
timate  than  the  ocean.  It  is  individual,  which  the 
ocean,  with  all  its  gulfs  and  inlets  and  multitudinous 
shores,  hardly  seems  to  be.  It  does  not  love  you  very 
dearly,  and  will  not  miss  you  much  when  you  disap 
pear  from  its  margin ;  but  it  means  well  to  you,  bids 
you  good-morning  with  its  coming  waves,  and  good- 
evening  with  those  which  are  leaving.  It  will  lead 
your  thoughts  pleasantly  away,  upwards  to  its  source, 
downwards  to  the  stream  to  which  it  is  tributary,  or 
the  wide  waters  in  which  it  is  to  lose  itself.  A  river, 
by  choice,  to  live  by  in  middle  age. 

"  In  hours  of  melancholy  reflection,  in  those  last 
years  of  life  which  have  little  left  but  tender  memo 
ries,  the  still  companionship  of  the  lake,  embosomed  in 
woods,  sheltered,  fed  by  sweet  mountain  brooks  and 
hidden  springs,  commends  itself  to  the  wearied  and 
saddened  spirit.  I  am  not  thinking  of  those  great  in 
land  seas,  which  have  many  of  the  features  and  much 
of  the  danger  that  belong  to  the  ocean,  but  of  those 
'  ponds,'  as  our  countrymen  used  to  call  them  until 
they  were  rechristened  by  summer  visitors ;  beautiful 
sheets  of  water  from  a  hundred  to  a  few  thousand 
acres  in  extent,  scattered  like  raindrops  over  the  map 
of  our  Northern  sovereignties.  The  loneliness  of  con- 
t3mplative  old  age  finds  its  natural  home  in  the  near 
neighborhood  of  one  of  these  tranquil  basins. 

"  Nature  does  not  always  plant  her  poets  where 
they  belong,  but  if  we  look  carefully  their  affinities 
betray  themselves.  The  youth  will  carry  his  Byron  to 
the  rock  which  overlooks  the  ocean  the  poet  loved  so 
well.  The  man  of  maturer  years  will  remember  that 
the  sonorous  couplets  of  Pope  which  ring  in  his  ears 


104  A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY. 

were  written  on  the  banks  of  the  Thames.  The  old 
man,  as  he  nods  over  the  solemn  verse  of  Wordsworth, 
will  recognize  the  affinity  between  the  singer  and  the 
calm  sheet  that  lay  before  him  as  he  wrote,  —  the 
stainless  and  sleepy  Windermere. 

"  The  dwellers  by  Cedar  Lake  may  find  it  an  amuse 
ment  to  compare  their  own  feelings  with  those  of  one 
who  has  lived  by  the  Atlantic  and  the  Mediterranean, 
by  the  Nile  and  the  Tiber,  by  Lake  Leuian  and  by 
one  of  the  fairest  sheets  of  water  that  our  own  North 
America  embosoms  in  its  forests." 

Miss  Lurida  Vincent,  Secretary  of  the  Pansophian 
Society,  read  this  paper,  and  pondered  long  upon  it. 
She  was  thinking  very  seriously  of  studying  medicine, 
and  had  been  for  some  time  in  frequent  communica 
tion  with  Dr.  Butts,  under  whose  direction  she  had  be 
gun  reading  certain  treatises,  which  added  to  such 
knowledge  of  the  laws  of  life  in  health  and  in  disease 
as  she  had  brought  with  her  from  the  Corinna  Insti 
tute.  Naturally  enough,  she  carried  the  anonymous 
paper  to  the  doctor,  to  get  his  opinion  about  it,  and 
compare  it  with  her  own.  They  both  agreed  that  it 
was  probably,  they  would  not  say  certainly,  the  work 
of  the  solitary  visitor.  There  was  room  for  doubt,  for 
there  were  visitors  who  might  well  have  travelled  to 
all  the  places  mentioned,  and  resided  long  enough  on 
the  shores  of  the  waters  the  writer  spoke  of  to  have 
had  all  the  experiences  mentioned  in  the  paper.  The 
Terror  remembered  a  young  lady,  a  former  school 
mate,  who  belonged  to  one  of  those  nomadic  families 
common  in  this  generation,  the  heads  of  which,  espe 
cially  the  female  heads,  can  never  be  easy  where  they 
are,  but  keep  going  between  America  and  Europe,  like 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  105 

so  many  pith-balls  in  the  electrical  experiment,  alter 
nately  attracted  and  repelled,  never  in  contented  equi 
librium.  Every  few  years  they  pull  their  families  up 
by  the  roots,  and  by  the  time  they  have  begun  to  take 
hold  a  little  with  their  radicles  in  the  spots  to  which 
they  have  been  successively  transplanted  up  they  come 
again,  so  that  they  never  get  a  tap-root  anywhere.  The 
Terror  suspected  the  daughter  of  one  of  these  families 
of  sending  certain  anonymous  articles  of  not  dissimilar 
character  to  the  one  she  had  just  received.  But  she 
knew  the  style  of  composition  common  among  the 
young  girls,  and  she  could  hardly  believe  that  it  was 
one  of  them  who  had  sent  this  paper.  Could  a  brother 
of  this  young  lady  have  written  it?  Possibly;  she 
knew  nothing  more  than  that  the  young  lady  had  a 
brother,  then  a  student  at  the  University.  All  the 
chances  were  that  Mr.  Maurice  Kirkwood  was  the 
author.  So  thought  Lurida,  and  so  thought  Dr. 
Butts. 

Whatever  faults  there  were  in  this  essay,  it  inter- 
ested.them  both.  There  was  nothing  which  gave  the 
least  reason  to  suspect  insanity  on  the  part  of  the 
writer,  whoever  he  or  she  might  be.  There  were  ref 
erences  to  suicide,  it  is  true,  but  they  were  of  a  purely 
speculative  nature,  and  did  not  look  to  any  practical 
purpose  in  that  direction.  Besides,  if  the  stranger 
were  the  author  of  the  paper,  he  certainly  would  not 
choose  a  sheet  of  water  like  Cedar  Lake  to  perform 
the  last  offices  for  him,  in  case  he  seriously  meditated 
taking  unceremonious  leave  of  life  and  its  accidents. 
He  could  find  a  river  easily  enough,  to  say  nothing  of 
other  methods  of  effecting  his  purpose ;  but  he  had 
committed  himself  as  to  the  impropriety  of  selecting  a 
lake,  so  they  need  not  be  anxious  about  the  white  canoe 


106  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

and  its  occupant,  as  they  watched  it  skimming  the  sur 
face  of  the  deep  waters. 

The  holder  of  the  Portfolio  would  never  have  ven 
tured  to  come  before  the  public  if  he  had  not  counted 
among  his  resources  certain  papers  belonging  to  the 
records  of  the  Pansophian  Society,  which  he  can  make 
free  use  of,  either  for  the  illustration  of  the  narrative, 
or  for  a  diversion  during  those  intervals  in  which  the 
flow  of  events  is  languid,  or  even  ceases  for  the  time  to 
manifest  any  progress.  The  reader  can  hardly  have 
failed  to  notice  that  the  old  Anchor  Tavern  had  be 
come  the  focal  point  where  a  good  deal  of  mental  ac 
tivity  converged.  There  were  the  village  people, 
including  a  number  of  cultivated  families ;  there  were 
the  visitors,  among  them  many  accomplished  and 
widely  travelled  persons ;  there  was  the  University, 
with  its  learned  teachers  and  aspiring  young  men ; 
there  was  the  Corinna  Institute,  with  its  eager,  ambi 
tious,  hungry-souled  young  women,  crowding  on,  class 
after  class  coming  forward  on  the  broad  stream  o/  lib 
eral  culture,  and  rounding  the  point  which,  once  passed, 
the  boundless  possibilities  of  womanhood  opened  be 
fore  them.  All  this  furnished  material  enough  and  to 
spare  for  the  records  and  the  archives  of  the  society. 

The  new  Secretary  infused  fresh  life  into  the  meet 
ings.  It  may  be  remembered  that  the  girls  had  said 
of  her,  when  she  was  The  Terror,  that  "she  knew 
everything  and  didn't  believe  anything."  That  was 
just  the  kind  of  person  for  a  secretary  of  such  an 
association.  Properly  interpreted,  the  saying  meant 
that  she  knew  a  great  deal,  and  wanted  to  know  a 
great  deal  more,  and  was  consequently  always  on  the 
lookout  for  information;  that  she  believed  nothing 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  107 

without  sufficient  proof  that  it  was  true,  and  therefore 
was  perpetually  asking  for  evidence  where  others  took 
assertions  on  trust. 

It  was  astonishing  to  see  what  one  little  creature 
like  The  Terror  could  accomplish  in  the  course  of  a 
single  season.  She  found  out  what  each  member 
could  do  and  wanted  to  do.  She  wrote  to  the  outside 
visitors  whom  she  suspected  of  capacity,  and  urged 
them  to  speak  at  the  meetings,  or  send  written  papers 
to  be  read.  As  an  official,  with  the  printed  title  at 
the  head  of  her  notes,  PANSOPHIAN  SOCIETY,  she  was 
a  privileged  personage.  She  begged  the  young  per 
sons  who  had  travelled  to  tell  something  of  their  ex 
periences.  She  had  contemplated  getting  up  a  dis 
cussion  on  the  woman's  rights  question,  but  being  a 
wary  little  body,  and  knowing  that  the  debate  would 
become  a  dispute  and  divide  the  members  into  two 
hostile  camps,  she  deferred  this  project  indefinitely. 
It  would  be  time  enough  after  she  had  her  team  well 
in  hand,  she  said  to  herself,  —  had  felt  their  mouths 
and  tried  their  paces.  This  expression,  as  she  used  it 
in  her  thoughts,  seems  rather  foreign  to  her  habits, 
but  there  was  room  in  her  large  brain  for  a  wide  range 
of  illustrations  and  an  ample  vocabulary.  She  could 
not  do  much  with  her  own  muscles,  but  she  had  known 
the  passionate  delight  of  being  whirled  furiously  over 
the  road  behind  four  scampering  horses,  in  a  rocking 
stage-coach,  and  thought  of  herself  in  the  Secretary's 
chair  as  not  unlike  the  driver  on  his  box.  A  few 
weeks  of  rest  had  allowed  her  nervous  energy  to  store 
itself  up,  and  the  same  powers  which  had  distanced 
competition  in  the  classes  of  her  school  had  of  neces 
sity  to  expend  themselves  in  vigorous  action  in  her 
new  office. 


108  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Her  appeals  had  their  effect.  A  number  of  papers 
were  very  soon  sent  in  ;  some  with  names,  some  anon 
ymously.  She  looked  these  papers  over,  and  marked 
those  which  she  thought  would  be  worth  reading  and 
listening  to  at  the  meetings.  One  of  them  has  just 
been  presented  to  the  reader.  As  to  the  authorship 
of  the  following  one  there  were  many  conjectures. 
A  well-known  writer,  who  had  spent  some  weeks  at 
Arrowhead  Village,  was  generally  suspected  of  being 
its  author.  Some,  however,  questioned  whether  it  was 
not  the  work  of  a  new  hand,  who  wrote,  not  from  ex 
perience,  but  from  his  or  her  ideas  of  the  condition  to 
which  a  story-teller,  a  novelist,  must  in  all  probability 
be  sooner  or  later  reduced.  The  reader  must  judge 
for  himself  whether  this  first  paper  is  the  work  of  an 
old  hand  or  a  novice. 

SOME    EXPERIENCES    OF   A   NOVELIST. 

"  I  have  written  a  frightful  number  of  stories,  — 
forty  or  more,  I  think.  Let  me  see.  For  twelve 
years  two  novels  a  year  regularly  :  that  makes  twenty- 
four.  In  three  different  years  I  have  written  three 
stories  annually:  that  makes  thirty-three.  In  fivo 
years  one  a  year,  — thirty-eight.  That  is  all,  isn't  it? 
Yes.  Thirty-eight,  not  forty.  I  wish  I  could  make 
them  all  into  one  composite  story,  as  Mr.  Galton  does 
his  faces. 

"  Hero  —  heroine  —  mamma  —  papa  —  uncle  —  sis 
ter,  and  so  on.  Love  —  obstacles  —  misery  —  tears 
• —  despair  —  glimmer  of  hope  —  unexpected  solution 
of  difficulties  —  happy  finale. 

"  Landscape  for  background  according  to  season. 
Plants  of  each  month  got  up  from  botanical  calen 
dars. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  109 

"  I  should  like  much  to  see  the  composite  novel. 
Why  not  apply  Mr.  Galton's  process,  and  get  thirty- 
eight  stories  all  in  one  ?  All  the  Yankees  would  re 
solve  into  one  Yankee,  all  the  P  —  West  Britons  — 
into  one  Patrick,  etc.,  —  what  a  saving  of  time  it 
would  be ! 

"  I  got  along  pretty  well  with  my  first  few  stories. 
I  had  some  characters  around  me  which,  a  little  dis 
guised,  answered  well  enough.  There  was  the  min 
ister  of  the  parish,  and  there  was  an  old  schoolmaster : 
either  of  them  >  served  very  satisfactorily  for  grand 
fathers  and  old  uncles.  All  I  had  to  do  was  to  shift 
some  of  their  leading  peculiarities,  keeping  the  rest. 
The  old  minister  wore  knee-breeches.  I  clapped  them 
on  to  the  schoolmaster.  The  schoolmaster  carried  a 
tall  gold-headed  cane.  I  put  this  in  the  minister's 
hands.  So  with  other  things,  —  I  shifted  them  round, 
and  got  a  set  of  characters  who,  taken  together,  repro 
duced  the  chief  persons  of  the  village  where  I  lived, 
but  did  not  copy  any  individual  exactly.  Thus  it  went 
on  for  a  while  ;  but  by  and  by  my  stock  company  began 
to  be  rather  too  familiarly  known,  in  spite  of  their 
change  of  costume,  and  at  last  some  altogether  too 
sagacious  person  published  what  he  called  a  '  key '  to 
several  of  my  earlier  stories,  in  which  I  found  the 
names  of  a  number  of  neighbors  attached  to  aliases 
of  my  own  invention.  All  the  '  types,'  as  he  called 
them,  represented  by  these  personages  of  my  story  had 
come  to  be  recognized,  each  as  standing  for  one  and 
the  same  individual  of  my  acquaintance.  It  had  been 
of  no  use  to  change  the  costume.  Even  changing  the 
sex  did  no  good.  I  had  a  famous  old  gossip  in  one 
of  my  tales,  —  a  much-babbling  Widow  Sertingly. 
1  Sho  ! '  they  all  said, l  that 's  old  Deacon  Spinner,  the 


110  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

same  he  told  about  in  that  other  story  of  his,  —  only 
the  deacon 's  got  on  a  petticoat  and  a  mob-cap,  —  but 
it 's  the  same  old  sixpence.'  So  I  said  to  myself,  I 
must  have  some  new  characters.  I  had  no  trouble 
with  young  characters  ;  they  are  all  pretty  much  alike, 

—  dark-haired  or  light-haired,  with  the  outfits  belong 
ing  to  their  complexion,  respectively.     I  had  an  old 
great-aunt,  who  was  a  tip-top  eccentric.     I  had  never 
seen  anything  just  like  her  in  books.     So  I  said,  I  will 
have  you,  old  lady,  in  one  of  my  stories ;  and,  sure 
enough,  I  fitted  her  out  with  a  first-rate  odd-sounding 
name,  which  I  got  from  the  directory,  and  sent  her 
forth  to  the  world,  disguised,  as  I  supposed,  beyond 
the  possibility  of  recognition.      The  book  sold  well, 
and  the  eccentric  personage  was  voted  a  novelty.     A 
few  weeks  after  it  was  published  a  lawyer  called  upon 
me,  as  the  agent  of  the  person  in  the  directory,  whose 
family  name  I  had  used,  as  he  maintained,  to  his  and 
all  his  relatives'  great  damage,  wrong,  loss,  grief,  shame, 
and  irreparable  injury,  for  which  the  sum  of  blank 
thousand   dollars   would   be  a  modest   compensation. 
The  story  made  the  book  sell,  but  not  enough  to  pay 
blank  thousand  dollars.     In  the  mean  time  a  cousin  of 
mine  had  sniffed  out  the   resemblance   between  the 
character  in  my  book  and  our  great-aunt.     We  were 
rivals  in  her  good  graces.     '  Cousin  Pansie '  spoke  to 
her  of  my  book  and  the  trouble  it  was  bringing  on 
me,  —  she  was  so  sorry  about  it !     She  liked  my  story, 

—  only  those  personalities,  you  know.     '  What  person 
alities  ? '  says  old  granny-aunt.     '  Why,  auntie,  dear, 
they  do  say  that  he  has  brought  in  everybody  we  know, 

—  did  n't  anybody  tell  you  about  —  well,  —  I  suppose 
you  ought  to  know  it,  —  did  n't  anybody  tell  you  you 
were  made  fun  of  in  that  novel?'     Somebody  —  no 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  Ill 

matter  who  —  happened  to  hear  all  this,  and  told  me. 
She  said  granny-aunt's  withered  old  face  had  two  red 
spots  come  to  it,  as  if  she  had  been  painting  her  cheeks 
from  a  pink  saucer.  No,  she  said,  not  a  pink  saucer, 
but  as  if  they  were  two  coals  of  fire.  .She  sent  out 
and  got  the  book,  and  made  her  (the  somebody  that  I 
was  speaking  of)  read  it  to  her.  When  she  had  heard 
as  much  as  she  could  stand,  —  for  '  Cousin  Pansie '  ex 
plained  passages  to  her,  —  explained,  you  know,  —  she 
sent  for  her  lawyer,  and  that  same  somebody  had  to 
be  a  witness  to  a  new  will  she  had  drawn  up.  It  was 
not  to  my  advantage.  '  Cousin  Pansie  '  got  the  corner 
lot  where  the  grocery  is,  and  pretty  much  everything 
else.  The  old  woman  left  me  a  legacy.  What  do 
you  think  it  was  ?  An  old  set  of  my  own  books,  that 
looked  as  if  it  had  been  bought  out  of  a  bankrupt 
circulating  library ! 

"  After  that  I  grew  more  careful.  I  studied  my 
disguises  much  more  diligently.  But  after  all,  what 
could  I  do  ?  Here  I  was,  writing  stories  for  my  living 
and  my  reputation.  I  made  a  pretty  sum  enough,  and 
worked  hard  enough  to  earn  it.  No  tale,  no  money. 
Then  every  story  that  went  from  my  workshop  had  to 
come  up  to  the  standard  of  my  reputation,  and  there 
was  a  set  of  critics,  —  there  is  a  set  of  critics  now  and 
everywhere,  —  that  watch  as  narrowly  for  the  decline 
of  a  man's  reputation  as  ever  a  village  half  drowned 
out  by  an  inundation  watched  for  the  falling  of  the 
waters.  The  fame  I  had  won,  such  as  it  was,  seemed 
to  attend  me,  —  not  going  before  me  in  the  shape  of 
a  woman  with  a  trumpet,  but  rather  following  me  like 
one  of  Action's  hounds,  his  throat  open,  ready  to  pull 
me  down  and  tear  rne.  What  a  fierce  enemy  is  that 
which  bays  behind  us  in  the  voice  of  our  proudest  by 
gone  achievement ! 


112  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

"  But,  as  I  said  above,  what  could  I  do  ?  I  must 
write  novels,  and  I  must  have  characters.  '  Then  why 
not  invent  them  ?  '  asks  some  novice.  Oh,  yes  !  In 
vent  them !  You  can  invent  a  human  being  that  in 
certain  aspects  of  humanity  will  answer  every  purpose 
for  which  your  invention  was  intended.  A  basket  of 
straw,  an  old  coat  and  pair  of  breeches,  a  hat  which 
has  been  soaked,  sat  upon,  stuffed  a  broken  window, 
and  had  a  brood  of  chickens  raised  in  it,  —  these  ele 
ments,  duly  adjusted  to  each  other,  will  represent  hu 
manity  so  truthfully  that  the  crows  will  avoid  the 
cornfield  when  your  scarecrow  displays  his  person 
ality.  Do  you  think  you  can  make  your  heroes  and 
heroines,  —  nay,  even  your  scrappy  supernumeraries, 
—  out  of  refuse  material,  as  you  made  your  scarecrow  ? 
You  can't  do  it.  You  must  study  living  people  and 
reproduce  them.  And  whom  do  you  know  so  well 
as  your  friends  ?  You  will  show  up  your  friends, 
then,  one  after  another.  When  your  friends  give  out, 
who  is  left  for  you?  Why,  nobody  but  your  own 
family,  of  course.  When  you  have  used  up  your  fam 
ily,  there  is  nothing  left  for  you  but  to  write  your  au 
tobiography. 

"After  my  experience  with  my  grand-aunt,  I  be 
came  more  cautious,  very  naturally.  I  kept  traits  of 
character,  but  I  mixed  ages  as  well  as  sexes.  In  this 
way  I  continued  to  use  up  a  large  amount  of  material, 
which  looked  as  if  it  were  as  dangerous  as  dynamite 
to  meddle  with.  Who  would  have  expected  to  meet 
my  maternal  uncle  in  the  guise  of  a  schoolboy  ?  Yet 
I  managed  to  decant  his  characteristics  as  nicely  as 
the  old  gentleman  would  have  decanted  a  bottle  of 
Juno  Madeira  through  that  long  siphon  which  he  al 
ways  used  when  the  most  sacred  vintages  were  sum- 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  113 

moned  from  their  crypts  to  render  an  account  of  them 
selves  on  his  hospitable  board.  It  was  a  nice  business, 
I  confess,  but  I  did  it,  and  I  drink  cheerfully  to  that 
good  uncle's  memory  in  a  glass  of  wine  from  his  own 
cellar,  which,  with  many  other  more  important  tokens 
of  his  good  will,  I  call  my  own  since  his  lamented  de 
mise. 

"  I  succeeded  so  well  with  my  uncle  that  I  thought 
I  would  try  a  course  of  cousins.  I  had  enough  of 
them  to  furnish  out  a  whole  gallery  of  portraits. 
There  was  cousin  '  Creeshy,'  as  we  called  her ;  Lu- 
cretia,  more  correctly.  She  was  a  cripple.  Her  left 
lower  limb  had  had  something  happen  to  it,  and  she 
walked  with  a  crutch.  Her  patience  under  her  trial 
was  very  pathetic  and  picturesque,  so  to  speak,  —  I 
mean  adapted  to  the  tender  parts  of  a  story ;  nothing 
could  work  up  better  in  a  melting  paragraph.  But  I 
could  not,  of  course,  describe  her  particular  infirmity ; 
that  would  point  her  out  at  once.  I  thought  of  shift 
ing  the  lameness  to  the  right  lower  limb,  but  even 
that  would  be  seen  through.  So  I  gave  the  young 
woman  that  stood  for  her  in  my  story  a  lame  elbow, 
and  put  her  arm  in  a  sling,  and  made  her  such  a 
model  of  uncomplaining  endurance  that  my  grand 
mother  cried  over  her  as  if  her  poor  old  heart  would 
break.  She  cried  very  easily,  my  grandmother ;  in 
fact,  she  had  such  a  gift  for  tears  that  I  availed  my 
self  of  it,  and  if  you  remember  old  Judy,  in  my  novel 
"  Honi  Soit "  (Honey  Sweet,  the  booksellers  called 
it),  —  old  Judy,  the  black  nurse,  — that  was  my  grand 
mother.  She  had  various  other  peculiarities,  which  I 
brought  out  one  by  one,  and  saddled  on  to  different 
characters.  You  see  she  was  a  perfect  mine  of  singu 
larities  and  idiosyncrasies.  After  I  had  used  her  up 


114  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

pretty  well,  I  came  down  upon  my  poor  relations. 
They  were  perfectly  fair  game  ;  what  better  use  could 
I  put  them  to  ?  I  studied  them  up  very  carefully,  and 
as  there  were  a  good  many  of  them  I  helped  myself 
freely.  They  lasted  me,  with  occasional  intermissions, 
I  should  say,  three  or  four  years.  I  had  to  be  very 
careful  with  my  poor  relations,  —  they  were  as  touchy 
as  they  could  be ;  and  as  I  felt  bound  to  send  a  copy 
of  my  novel,  whatever  it  might  be,  to  each  one  of 
them,  —  there  were  as  many  as  a  dozen,  —  I  took  care 
to  mix  their  characteristic  features,  so  that,  though 
each  might  suspect  I  meant  the  other,  no  one  should 
think  I  meant  him  or  her.  I  got  through  all  my  re 
lations  at  last  except  my  father  and  mother.  I  had 
treated  my  brothers  and  sisters  pretty  fairly,  all  except 
Elisha  and  Joanna.  The  truth  is  they  both  had  lots 
of  odd  ways, — family  traits,  I  suppose,  —  but  were 
just  different  enough  from  each  other  to  figure  sepa 
rately  in  two  different  stories.  These  two  novels  made 
rne  some  little  trouble ;  for  Elisha  said  he  felt  sure 
that  I  meant  Joanna  in  one  of  them,  and  quarrelled 
with  me  about  it ;  and  Joanna  vowed  and  declared 
that  Elnathan,  in  the  other,  stood  for  brother  'Lisha, 
and  that  it  was  a  real  mean  thing  to  make  fun  of  folks' 
own  flesh  and  blood,  and  treated  me  to  one  of  her 
cries.  She  wasn't  handsome  when  she  cried,  poor, 
dear  Joanna ;  in  fact,  that  was  one  of  the  personal 
traits  I  had  made  use  of  in  the  story  that  Elisha  found 
fault  with. 

"  So  as  there  was  nobody  left  but  my  father  and 
mother,  you  see  for  yourself  I  had  no  choice.  There 
was  one  great  advantage  in  dealing  with  them,  —  I 
knew  them  so  thoroughly.  One  naturally  feels  a  cer 
tain  delicacy  in  handling  from  a  purely  artistic  point 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  115 

of  view  persons  who  have  been  so  near  to  him.  One's 
mother,  for  instance :  suppose  some  of  her  little  ways 
were  so  peculiar  that  the  accurate  delineation  of  them 
would  furnish  amusement  to  great  numbers  of  read 
ers  ;  it  would  not  be  without  hesitation  that  a  writer 
of  delicate  sensibility  would  draw  her  portrait,  with 
all  its  whimsicalities,  so  plainly  that  it  should  be 
generally  recognized.  One's  father  is  commonly  of 
tougher  fibre  than  one's  mother,  and  one  would  not 
feel  the  same  scruples,  perhaps,  in  using  him  profes 
sionally  as  material  in  a  novel ;  still,  while  you  are 
employing  him  as  bait,  —  you  see  I  am  honest  and 
plain-spoken,  for  your  characters  are  baits  to  catch 
readers  with,  —  I  would  follow  kind  Izaak  Walton's 
humane  counsel  about  the  frog  you  are  fastening  to 
your  fish-hook :  fix  him  artistically,  as  he  directs,  but 
in  so  doing  '  use  him  as  though  you  loved  him.' 

"  I  have  at  length  shown  up,  in  one  form  and 
another,  all  my  townsmen  who  have  anything  effective 
in  their  bodily  or  mental  make-up,  all  my  friends,  all 
my  relatives ;  that  is,  all  my  blood  relatives.  It  has 
occurred  to  me  that  I  might  open  a  new  field  in  the 
family  connection  of  my  father-in-law  and  mother-in- 
law.  We  have  been  thinking  of  paying  them  a  visit, 
and  I  shall  have  an  admirable  opportunity  of  studying 
them  and  their  relatives  and  visitors.  I  have  long 
wanted  a  good  chance  for  getting  acquainted  with  the 
social  sphere  several  grades  below  that  to  which  I  am 
accustomed,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  shall  find 
matter  for  half  a  dozen  new  stories  among  those  con 
nections  of  mine.  Besides,  they  live  in  a  Western 
city,  and  one  does  n't  mind  much  how  he  cuts  up  the 
people  of  places  he  does  n't  himself  live  in.  I  suppose 
there  is  not  really  so  much  difference  in  people's  feel- 


116  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

ings,  whether  they  live  in  Bangor  or  Omaha,  but  one's 
nerves  can't  be  expected  to  stretch  across  the  conti 
nent.  It  is  all  a  matter  of  greater  or  less  distance.  I 
read  this  morning  that  a  Chinese  fleet  was  sunk,  but  I 
did  n't  think  half  so  much  about  it  as  I  did  about  los 
ing  my  sleeve  button,  confound  it !  People  have  ac 
cused  me  of  want  of  feeling  ;  they  misunderstand  the 
artist-nature,  —  that  is  all.  I  obey  that  implicitly  ;  I 
am  sorry  if  people  don't  like  my  descriptions,  but  I 
have  done  my  best.  I  have  pulled  to  pieces  all  the 
persons  I  am  acquainted  with,  and  put  them  together 
again  in  my  characters.  The  quills  I  write  with  come 
from  live  geese,  I  would  have  you  know.  I  expect  to 
get  some  first-rate  pluckings  from  those  people  I  was 
speaking  of,  and  I  mean  to  begin  my  thirty-ninth 
novel  as  soon  as  I  have  got  through  my  visit." 


IX. 

THE   SOCIETY  AND  ITS  NEW   SECRETARY. 

THERE  is  no  use  in  trying  to  hurry  the  natural  * 
course  of  events,  in  a  narrative  like  this.  June  passed 
away,  and  July,  and  August  had  come,  and  as  yet  the 
enigma  which  had  completely  puzzled  Arrowhead  Vil 
lage  and  its  visitors  remained  unsolved.  The  white 
canoe  still  wandered  over  the  lake,  alone,  ghostly,  al 
ways  avoiding  the  near  approach  of  the  boats  which 
seemed  to  be  coming  in  its  direction.  Now  and  then 
a  circumstance  would  happen  which  helped  to  keep 
inquiry  alive.  Good  horsemanship  was  not  so  com 
mon  among  the  young  men  of  the  place  and  its  neigh 
borhood  that  Maurice's  accomplishment  in  that  way 
could  be  overlooked.  If  there  was  a  wicked  horse  or 
a  wild  colt  whose  owner  was  afraid  of  him,  he  would 
be  commended  to  Maurice's  attention.  Paolo  would 
lead  him  to  his  master  with  all  due  precaution,  —  for 
he  had  no  idea  of  risking  his  neck  on  the  back  of  any 
ill-conditioned  beast,  —  and  Maurice  would  fasten  on 
his  long  spurs,  spring  into  the  saddle,  and  very  speed 
ily  teach  the  creature  good  behavior.  There  soon 
got  about  a  story  that  he  was  what  the  fresh-water 
fisherman  called  "  one  o'  them  whisperers."  It  is  a 
common  legend  enough,  coming  from  the  Old  World, 
but  known  in  American  horse-talking  circles,  that  some 
persons  will  whisper  certain  words  in  a  horse's  ear 
which  will  tame  him  if  he  is  as  wild  and  furious  as  ever 


118  A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY. 

Cruiser  was.  All  this  added  to  the  mystery  which  sur 
rounded  the  young  man.  A  single  improbable  or  ab 
surd  story  amounts  to  very  little,  but  when  half  a 
dozen  such  stories  are  told  about  the  same  individual 
or  the  same  event,  they  begin  to  produce  the  effect  of 
credible  evidence.  If  the  year  had  been  1692  and  the 
place  had  been  Salem  Village,  Maurice  Kirkwood 
would  have  run  the  risk  of  being  treated  like  the  Rev 
erend  George  Burroughs. 

Miss  Lurida  Vincent's  curiosity  had  been  intensely 
excited  with  reference  to  the  young  man  of  whom  so 
many  stories  were  told.  She  had  pretty  nearly  con: 
vinced  herself  that  he  was  the  author  of  the  paper  on 
Ocean,  Lake,  and  River,  which  had  been  read  at  one 
of  the  meetings  of  the  Pansophian  Society.  She  was 
very  desirous  of  meeting  him,  if  it  were  possible.  It 
seemed  as  if  she  might,  as  Secretary  of  the  Society, 
request  the  cooperation  of  any  of  the  visitors,  without 
impropriety.  So,  after  much  deliberation,  she  wrote 
a  careful  note,  of  which  the  following  is  an  exact  copy. 
Her  hand  was  bold,  almost  masculine,  a  curious  con 
trast  to  that  of  Euthymia,  which  was  delicately  femi 
nine. 

Pansopljtan  Hxmctp. 

ARROWHEAD  VILLAGE,  August  3, 18 — . 
MAURICE  KIRKWOOD,  ESQ. 

DEAR  SIR,  —  You  have  received,  I  trust,  a  card  of 
invitation  to  the  meetings  of  our  Society,  but  I  think 
we  have  not  yet  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  any 
of  them.  We  have  supposed  that  we  might  be  in 
debted  to  you  for  a  paper  read  at  the  last  meeting,  and 
listened  to  with  much  interest.  As  it  was  anonymous, 
we  do  not  wish  to  be  inquisitive  respecting  its  author- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  119 

ship ;  but  we  desire  to  say  that  any  papers  kindly  sent 
us  by  the  temporary  residents  of  our  village  will  be 
welcome,  and  if  adapted  to  the  wants  of  our  Associa 
tion  will  be  read  at  one  of  its  meetings  or  printed  in 
its  records,  or  perhaps  both  read  and  printed.  May 
we  not  hope  for  your  presence  at  the  meeting,  which 
is  to  take  place  next  Wednesday  evening  ? 
Respectfully  yours, 

LURIDA  VINCENT, 

Secretary  of  the  Pansophian  Society. 

To  this  note  the  Secretary  received  the  following 
reply:  — 

ARROWHEAD  VILLAGE,  August  4,  18 — . 
Miss  LURIDA  VINCENT, 

Secretary  offhe  Pansophian  Society: 
DEAR  Miss  VINCENT,  —  I  have  received  the  ticket 
you  refer  to,  and  desire  to  express  my  acknowledg 
ments  for  the  polite  attention.  I  regret  that  I  have  not 
been  and  I  fear  shall  not  be  able  to  attend  the  meet 
ings  of  the  Society;  but  if  any  subject  occurs  to  me 
on  which  I  feel  an  inclination  to  write,  it  will  give  me 
pleasure  to  send  a  paper,  to  be  disposed  of  as  the 
Society  may  see  fit. 

Very  respectfully  yours, 

MAURICE  KIRKWOOD. 

"  He  says  nothing  about  the  authorship  of  the  paper 
that  was  read  the  other  evening,"  the  Secretary  said 
to  herself.  "  No  matter,  —  he  wrote  it,  —  there  is  no 
mistaking  his  handwriting.  We  know  something 
about  him,  now,  at  any  rate.  But  why  does  n't  he 
come  to  our  meetings  ?  What  has  his  antipathy  to 
do  with  his  staying  away  ?  I  must  find  out  what  his 


120  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

secret  is,  and  I  will.  I  don't  believe  it 's  harder  than 
it  was  to  solve  that  prize  problem  which  puzzled  so 
many  teachers,  or  than  beating  Crakowitz,  the  great 
chess-player." 

To  this  enigma,  then,  The  Terror  determined  to 
bend  all  the  faculties  which  had  excited  the  admira 
tion  and  sometimes  the  amazement  of  those  who  knew 
her  in  her  school-days.  It  was  a  very  delicate  piece 
of  business ;  for  though  Lurida  was  an  intrepid  wo 
man's  rights  advocate,  and  believed  she  was  entitled 
to  do  almost  everything  that  men  dared  to,  she  knew 
very  well  there  were  certain  limits  which  a  young 
woman  like  herself  must  not  pass. 

In  the  mean  time  Maurice  had  received  a  visit  from 
the  young  student  at  the  University,  —  the  same 
whom  he  had  rescued  from  his  dangerous  predicament 
in  the  lake.  With  him  had  called  one  of  the  teachers, 
—  an  instructor  in  modern  languages,  a  native  of 
Italy.  Maurice  and  the  instructor  exchanged  a  few 
words  in  Italian.  The  young  man  spoke  it  with  the 
ease  which  implied  long  familiarity  with  its  use. 

After  they  left,  the  instructor  asked  many  curious 
questions  about  him,  —  who  he  was,  how  long  he  had 
been  in  the  village,  whether  anything  was  known  of 
his  history,  —  all  these  inquiries  with  an  eagerness 
which  implied  some  special  and  peculiar  reason  for 
the  interest  they  evinced. 

"  I  feel  satisfied,"  the  instructor  said,  "  that  I  have 
met  that  young  man  in  my  own  country.  It  was  a 
number  of  years  ago,  and  of  course  he  has  altered  in 
appearance  a  good  deal ;  but  there  is  a  look  about 
him  of  —  what  shall  I  call  it?  —  apprehension, — as 
if  he  were  fearing  the  approach  of  something  or  some 
body.  I  think  it  is  the  way  a  man  would  look  that 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  121 

was  haunted  ;  you  know  what  I  mean,  —  followed  by 
a  spirit  or  ghost.  He  does  not  suggest  the  idea  of  a 
murderer,  —  very  far  from  it ;  but  if  he  did,  I  should 
think  he  was  every  minute  in  fear  of  seeing  the  mur 
dered  man's  spirit." 

The  student  was  curious,  in  his  turn,  to  know  all  the 
instructor  could  recall.  He  had  seen  him  in  Rome,  he 
thought,  at  the  Fountain  of  Trevi,  where  so  many 
strangers  go  before  leaving  the  city.  The  youth  was 
in  the  company  of  a  man  who  looked  like  a  priest.  He 
could  not  mistake  the  peculiar  expression  of  his  coun 
tenance,  but  that  was  all  he  now  remembered  about 
his  appearance.  His  attention  had  been  called  to  this 
young  man  by  seeing  that  some  of  the  bystanders  were 
pointing  at  him,  and  noticing  that  they  were  whisper 
ing  with  each  other  as  if  with  reference  to  him.  He 
should  say  that  the  youth  was  at  that  time  fifteen  or 
sixteen  years  old,  and  the  time  was  about  ten  years 
ago. 

After  all,  this  evidence  was  of  little  or  no  value. 
Suppose  the  youth  were  Maurice  ;  what  then  ?  We 
know  that  he  had  been  in  Italy,  and  had  been  there  a 
good  while,  —  or  at  least  we  infer  so  much  from  his 
familiarity  with  the  language,  and  are  confirmed  in  the 
belief  by  his  having  an  Italian  servant,  whom  he  prob 
ably  brought  from  Italy  when  he  returned.  If  he 
wrote  the  paper  which  was  read  the  other  evening, 
that  settles  it,  for  the  writer  says  he  had  lived  by  the 
Tiber.  We  must  put  this  scrap  of  evidence  furnished 
by  the  Professor  with  the  other  scraps ;  it  may  turn 
out  of  some  consequence,  sooner  or  later.  It  is  like  a 
piece  of  a  dissected  map  ;  it  means  almost  nothing  by 
itself,  but  when  we  find  the  pieces  it  joins  with  we  may 
discover  a  very  important  meaning  in  it. 


122  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

In  a  small,  concentrated  community  like  that  which 
centred  in  and  immediately  around  Arrowhead  Village, 
every  day  must  have  its  local  gossip  as  well  as  its  gen 
eral  news.  The  newspaper  tells  the  small  community 
what  is  going  on  in  the  great  world,  and  the  busy 
tongues  of  male  and  female,  especially  the  latter,  fill 
in  with  the  occurrences  and  comments  of  the  ever-stir 
ring  microcosm.  The  fact  that  the  Italian  teacher 
had,  or  thought  he  had,  seen  Maurice  ten  years  before 
was  circulated  and  made  the  most  of,  —  turned  over 
and  over  like  a  cake,  until  it  was  thoroughly  done  on 
both  sides  and  all  through.  It  was  a  very  small  cake, 
but  better  than  nothing.  Miss  Vincent  heard  this 
story,  as  others  did,  and  talked  about  it  with  her 
friend,  Miss  Tower.  Here  was  one  more  fact  to  help 
along. 

The  two  young  ladies  who  had  recently  graduated 
at  the  Corinna  Institute  remained,  as  they  had  always 
been,  intimate  friends.  They  were  the  natural  com 
plements  of  each  other.  Euthymia  represented  a  com 
plete,  symmetrical  womanhood.  Her  outward  presence 
was  only  an  index  of  a  large,  wholesome,  affluent  life. 
She  could  not  help  being  courageous,  with  such  a  firm 
organization.  She  could  not  help  being  generous, 
cheerful,  active.  She  had  been  told  often  enough  that 
she  was  fair  to  look  upon.  She  knew  that  she  was 
called  The  Wonder  by  the  schoolmates  who  were  daz 
zled  by  her  singular  accomplishments,  but  she  did  not 
overvalue  them.  She  rather  tended  to  depreciate  her 
own  gifts,  in  comparison  with  those  of  her  friend,  Miss 
Lurida  Vincent.  The  two  agreed  all  the  better  for 
differing  as  they  did.  The  octave  makes  a  perfect 
chord,  when  shorter  intervals  jar  more  or  less  on  the 
ear.  Each  admired  the  other  with  a  heartiness  which, 


A   MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  123 

if  they  had  been  less  unlike,  would  have  been  impos 
sible. 

It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  observe  their  dependence 
on  each  other.  The  Terror  of  the  schoolroom  was  the 
oracle  in  her  relations  with  her  friend.  All  the  free 
dom  of  movement  which  The  Wonder  showed  in  her 
bodily  exercises  The  Terror  manifested  in  the  world  of 
thought.  She  would  fling  open  a  book,  and  decide  in 
a  swift  glance  whether  it  had  any  message  for  her. 
Her  teachers  had  compared  her  way  of  reading  to  the 
taking  of  an  instantaneous  photograph.  When  she 
took  up  the  first  book  on  Physiology  which  Dru  Butts 
handed  her,  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  she  only  opened 
at  any  place,  and  gave  one  look,  her  mind  drank  its 
meaning  up,  as  a  moist  sponge  absorbs  water.  "  What 
can  I  do  with  such  a  creature  as  this  ? "  he  said  to 
himself.  "  There  is  only  one  way  to  deal  with  her,  — 
treat  her  as  one  treats  a  silkworm :  give  it  its  mul 
berry  leaf,  and  it  will  spin  its  own  cocoon.  Give  her 
the  books,  and  she  will  spin  her  own  web  of  knowl 
edge." 

"  Do  jon  really  think  of  studying  medicine  ?  "  said 
Dr.  Butts  to  her. 

"  I  have  n't  made  up  my  mind  about  that,"  she  an 
swered,  "  but  I  want  to  know  a  little  more  about  this 
terrible  machinery  of  life  and  death  wo  are  all  tangled 
in.  I  know  something  about  it,  but  not  enough.  I 
find  some  very  strange  beliefs  among  the  women  I 
meet  with,  and  I  want  to  be  able  to  silence  them  when 
they  attempt  to  proselyte  me  to  their  whims  and  fan 
cies.  Besides,  I  want  to  know  everything." 

"  They  tell  me  you  do,  already,"  said  Dr.  Butts. 

"  I  am  the  most  ignorant  little  wretch  that  draws 
the  breath  of  life  !  "  exclaimed  The  Terror. 


124  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

The  doctor  smiled.  He  knew  what  it  meant.  She 
had  reached  that  stage  of  education  in  which  the  vast 
domain  of  the  unknown  opens  its  illimitable  expanse 
before  the  eyes  of  the  student.  We  never  know  the 
extent  of  darkness  until  it  is  partially  illuminated. 

"  You  did  not  leave  the  Institute  with  the  reputa 
tion  of  being  the  most  ignorant  young  lady  that  ever 
graduated  there,"  said  the  doctor.  "They  tell  me 
you  got  the  highest  marks  of  any  pupil  on  their  record 
since  the  school  was  founded." 

"  What  a  grand  thing  it  was  to  be  the  biggest  fish 
in  our  small  aquarium,  to  be  sure ! "  answered  The 
Terror.  "  He  was  six  inches  long,  the  monster,  —  a 
little  too  big  for  bait  to  catch  a  pickerel  with !  What 
did  you  hand  me  that  schoolbook  for  ?  Did  you  think 
I  did  n't  know  anything  about  the  human  body  ?  " 

"  You  said  you  were  such  an  ignorant  creature  I 
thought  I  would  try  you  with  an  easy  book,  by  way  of 
introduction." 

The  Terror  was  not  confused  by  her  apparent  self- 
contradiction. 

"  I  meant  what  I  said,  and  I  mean  what  I  say. 
When  I  talk  about  my  ignorance,  I  don't  measure  my 
self  with  schoolgirls,  doctor.  I  don't  measure  myself 
with  my  teachers,  either.  You  must  talk  to  me  as  if  I 
were  a  man,  a  grown  man,  if  you  mean  to  teach  me 
anything.  Where  is  your  hat,  doctor?  Let  me  try 
it  on." 

The  doctor  handed  her  his  wide-awake.  The  Ter 
ror's  hair  was  not  naturally  abundant,  like  Euthymia's, 
and  she  kept  it  cut  rather  short.  Her  head  used  to  get 
very  hot  when  she  studied  hard.  She  tried  to  put  the 
hat  on. 

"  Do  you  see  that  ?  "  she  said.    "  I  could  n't  wear  it, 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  125 

—  it  would  squeeze  my  eyes  out  of  my  head.  The 
books  told  me  that  women's  brains  were  smaller  than 
men's :  perhaps  they  are,  —  most  of  them,  —  I  never 
measured  a  great  many.  But  when  they  try  to  settle 
what  women  are  good  for,  by  phrenology,  I  like  to 
have  them  put  their  tape  round  my  head.  I  don't  be 
lieve  in  their  nonsense,  for  all  that.  You  might  as 
well  tell  me  that  if  one  horse  weighs  more  than  an 
other  horse  he  is  worth  more,  —  a  cart  -  horse  that 
weighs  twelve  or  fourteen  hundred  pounds  better  than 
Eclipse,  that  may  have  weighed  a  thousand.  Give  me 
a  list  of  the  best  books  you  can  think  of,  and  turn  me 
loose  in  your  library.  I  can  find  what  I  want,  if  you 
have  it ;  and  what  I  don't  find  there  I  will  get  at  the 
Public  Library.  I  shall  want  to  ask  you  a  question 
now  and  then." 

The  doctor  looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  admiration, 
but  thoughtfully,  as  if  he  feared  she  was  thinking  of 
a  task  too  formidable  for  her  slight  constitutional  re 
source. 

She  returned,  instinctively,  to  the  apparent  contra 
diction  in  her  statements  about  herself. 

"  I  am  not  a  fool,  if  I  am  ignorant.  Yes,  doctor,  I 
sail  on  a  wide  sea  of  ignorance,  but  I  have  taken 
soundings  of  some  of  its  shallows  and  some  of  its 
depths.  Your  profession  deals  with  the  facts  of  life 
that  interest  me  most  just  now,  and  I  want  to  know 
something  of  it.  Perhaps  I  may  find  it  a  calling  such 
as  would  suit  me." 

"  Do  you  seriously  think  of  becoming  a  practitioner 
of  medicine  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  Certainly,  I  seriously  think  of  it  as  a  possibility, 
but  I  want  to  know  something  more  about  it  first. 
Perhaps  I  sha'n't  believe  in  medicine  enough  to  prac- 


126  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tise  it.  Perhaps  I  sha'n't  like  it  well  enough.  No 
matter  about  that.  I  wish  to  study  some  of  your  best 
books  on  some  of  the  subjects  that  most  interest  me.  I 
know  about  bones  and  muscles  and  all  that,  and  about 
digestion  and  respiration  and  such  things.  I  want  to 
study  up  the  nervous  system,  and  learn  all  about  it. 
I  am  of  the  nervous  temperament  myself,  and  perhaps 
that  is  the  reason.  I  want  to  read  about  insanity  and 
all  that  relates  to  it." 

A  curious  expression  flitted  across  the  doctor's  fea 
tures  as  The  Terror  said  this. 

"Nervous  system.  Insanity.  She  has  headaches, 
I  know,  —  all  those  large-headed,  hard-thinking  girls 
do,  as  a  matter  of  course ;  but  what  has  set  her  off 
about  insanity  and  the  nervous  system  ?  I  wonder  if 
any  of  her  more  remote  relatives  are  subject  to  mental 
disorder.  Bright  people  very  often  have  crazy  rela 
tions.  Perhaps  some  of  her  friends  are  in  that  way. 
I  wonder  whether "  —  the  doctor  did  not  speak  any 
of  these  thoughts,  and  in  fact  hardly  shaped  his 
"  whether,"  for  The  Terror  interrupted  his  train  of 
reflection,  or  rather  struck  into  it  in  a  way  which 
startled  him. 

"  Where  is  the  first  volume  of  this  Medical  Cyclo 
paedia  ?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  its  empty  place  on  the 
shelf. 

"  On  my  table,"  the  doctor  answered.  "  I  have 
been  consulting  it." 

Lurida  flung  it  open,  in  her  eager  way,  and  turned 
the  pages  rapidly  until  she  came  to  the  one  she  wanted. 
The  doctor  cast  his  eye  on  the  heading  of  the  page, 
and  saw  the  large  letters  ANT. 

"  I  thought  so,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  We  shall 
know  everything  there  is  in  the  books  about  antipa- 


A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY.  127 

tliies  now,  if  we  never  did  before.  She  has  a  special 
object  in  studying  the  nervous  system,  just  as  I  sus 
pected.  I  think  she  does  not  care  to  mention  it  at 
this  time  ;  but  if  she  finds  out  anything  of  interest  she 
will  tell  me,  if  she  does  anybody.  Perhaps  she  does 
not  mean  to  tell  anybody.  It  is  a  rather  delicate  busi 
ness,  —  a  young  girl  studying  the  natural  history  of  a 
young  man.  Not  quite  so  safe  as  botany  or  palasontol- 


Lurida,  lately  The  Terror,  now  Miss  Vincent,  had 
her  own  plans,  and  chose  to  keep  them  to  herself,  for 
the  present,  at  least.  Her  hands  were  full  enough,  it 
might  seem,  without  undertaking  the  solution  of  the 
great  Arrowhead  Village  enigma.  But  she  was  in  the 
most  perfect  training,  so  far  as  her  intelligence  was 
concerned  ;  and  the»  summer  rest  had  restored  her 
bodily  vigor,  so  that  her  brain  was  like  an  over 
charged  battery  which  will  find  conductors  somewhere 
to  carry  off  its  crowded  energy. 

At  this  time  Arrowhead  Village  was  enjoying  the 
most  successful  season  it  had  ever  known.  The  Pan- 
sophian  Society  flourished  to  an  extraordinary  degree 
under  the  fostering  care  of  the  new  Secretary.  The 
rector  was  a  good  figure-head  as  President,  but  the 
Secretary  was  the  life  of  the  Society.  Communica 
tions  came  in  abundantly  :  some  from  the  village  and 
its  neighborhood,  some  from  the  University  and  the 
Institute,  some  from  distant  and  unknown  sources. 
The  new  Secretary  was  very  busy  with  the  work  of 
examining  these  papers.  After  a  forenoon  so  em 
ployed,  the  carpet  of  her  room  looked  like  a  barn  floor 
after  a  husk  ing-match.  A  glance  at  the  manuscripts 
strewed  about,  or  lying  in  heaps,  would  have  fright 
ened  any  young  writer  away  from  the  thought  of  au- 


128  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

thorship  as  a  business.  If  the  candidate  for  that  fear 
ful  calling  had  seen  the  process  of  selection  and  elimi 
nation,  he  would  have  felt  still  more  desperately.  A 
paper  of  twenty  pages  would  come  in,  with  an  under 
scored  request  to  please  read  through  carefully.  That 
request  alone  is  commonly  sufficient  to  condemn  any 
paper,  and  prevent  its  having  any  chance  of  a  hear 
ing  ;  but  the  Secretary  was  not  hardened  enough  yet 
for  that  kind  of  martial  law  in  dealing  with  manu 
scripts.  The  looker-on  might  have  seen  her  take  up 
the  paper,  cast  one  flashing  glance  at  its  title,  read  the 
first  sentence  and  the  last,  dip  at  a  venture  into  two  or 
three  pages,  and  decide  as  swiftly  as  the  lightning  cal 
culator  would  add  up  a  column  of  figures  what  was  to 
be  its  destination.  If  rejected,  it  went  into  the  heap 
on  the  left ;  if  approved,  it  was  laid  apart,  to  be  sub 
mitted  to  the  Committee  for  their  judgment.  The 
foolish  writers  who  insist  on  one's  reading  through 
their  manuscript  poems  and  stories  ought  to  know  how 
fatal  the  request  is  to  their  prospects.  It  provokes 
the  reader,  to  begin  with.  The  reading  of  manuscript 
is  frightful  work,  at  the  best ;  the  reading  of  worth 
less  manuscript  —  and  most  of  that  which  one  is 
requested  to  read  through  is  worthless  —  would  add 
to  the  terrors  of  Tartarus,  if  any  infernal  deity  were 
ingenious  enough  to  suggest  it  as  a  punishment. 

If  a  paper  was  rejected  by  the  Secretary,  it  did  not 
come  before  the  Committee,  but  was  returned  to  the 
author,  if  he  sent  for  it,  which  he  commonly  did.  Its 
natural  course  was  to  try  for  admission  into  some  one 
of  the  popular  magazines :  into  "  The  Sifter,"  the  most 
fastidious  of  them  all ;  if  that  declined  it,  into  "  The 
Second  Best ; "  and  if  that  returned  it,  into  "  The 
Omnivorous."  If  it  was  refused  admittance  at  the 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  129 

doors  of  all  the  magazines,  it  might  at  length  find  shel 
ter  in  the  corner  of  a  newspaper,  where  a  good  deal  of 
very  readable  verse  is  to  be  met  with  nowadays,  some 
of  which  has  been,  no  doubt,  presented  to  the  Pan- 
sophian  Society,  but  was  not  considered  up  to  its 
standard. 


X. 

A   NEW   ARKIVAL. 

THERE  was  a  recent  accession  to  the  transient  pop 
ulation  of  the  village  which  gave  rise  to  some  specu 
lation.  The  new-comer  was  a  young  fellow,  rather 
careless  in  his  exterior,  but  apparently  as  much  at 
home  as  if  he  owned  Arrowhead  Village  and  every 
thing  in  it.  He  commonly  had  a  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
carried  a  pocket  pistol,  of  the  non-explosive  sort,  and 
a  stick  with  a  bulldog's  head  for  its  knob  ;  wore  a  soft 
hat,  a  coarse  check  suit,  a  little  baggy,  and  gaiter- 
boots  which  had  been  half -soled,  —  a  Bohemian-look 
ing  personage,  altogether. 

This  individual  began  making  explorations  in  every 
direction.  He  was  very  curious  about  the  place  and 
all  the  people  in  it.  He  was  especially  interested  in 
the  Pansophian  Society,  concerning  which  he  made  all 
sorts  of  inquiries.  This  led  him  to  form  a  summer 
acquaintance  with  the  Secretary,  who  was  pleased  to 
give  him  whatever  information  he  asked  for ;  being 
proud  of  the  Society,  as  she  had  a  right  to  be,  and 
knowing  more  about  it  than  anybody  else. 

The  visitor  could  not  have  been  long  in  the  village 
without  hearing  something  of  Maurice  Kirkwood,  and 
the  stories,  true  and  false,  connected  witli  his  name. 
He  questioned  everybody  who  could  tell  him  anything 
about  Maurice,  and  set  down  the  answers  in  a  little 
note-book  he  always  had  with  him. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  131 

All  this  naturally  excited  the  curiosity  of  the  vil 
lage  about  this  new  visitor.  Among  the  rest,  Miss 
Vincent,  not  wanting  in  an  attribute  thought  to  belong 
more  especially  to  her  sex,  became  somewhat  inter 
ested  to  know  more  exactly  who  this  inquiring,  note- 
taking  personage,  who  seemed  to  be  everywhere  and 
to  know  everybody,  might  himself  be.  Meeting  him 
at  the  Public  Library  at  a  fortunate  moment,  when 
there  was  nobody  but  the  old  Librarian,  who  was  hard 
of  hearing,  to  interfere  with  their  conversation,  the  lit 
tle  Secretary  had  a  chance  to  try  to  find  out  something 
about  him. 

"  This  is  a  very  "remarkable  library  for  a  small  vil 
lage  to  possess,"  he  remarked  to  Miss  Lurida. 

"  It  is,  indeed,"  she  said.  "  Have  you  found  it  well 
furnished  with  the  books  you  most  want  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  —  books  enough.  I  don't  care  so  much 
for  the  books  as  I  do  for  the  Newspapers.  I  like  a 
Review  well  enough,  —  it  tells  you  all  there  is  in  a 
book ;  but  a  good  abstract  of  the  Review  in  a  News 
paper  saves  a  fellow  the  trouble  of  reading  it." 

"  You  find  the  papers  you  want,  here,  I  hope,"  said 
the  young  lady. 

"  Oh,  I  get  along  pretty  well.  It 's  my  off-time,  and 
I  don't  do  much  reading  or  writing.  Who  is  the  city 
correspondent  of  this  place  ?  " 

"  I  don't  think  we  have  any  one  who  writes  regu 
larly.  Now  and  then,  there  is  a  letter,  with  the  gos 
sip  of  the  place  in  it,  or  an  account  of  some  of  the  do 
ings  at  our  Society.  The  city  papers  are  always  glad 
to  get  the  reports  of  our  meetings,  and  to  know  what 
is  going  on  in  the  village." 

"  I  suppose  you  write  about  the  Society  to  the  pa 
pers,  as  you  are  the  Secretary." 


132  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

This  was  a  point-blank  shot.  She  meant  to  ques 
tion  the  young  man  about  his  business,  and  here  she 
was  on  the  witness-stand.  She  ducked  her  head,  and 
let  the  question  go  over  her. 

"  Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  members  who  are  willing 
enough  to  write,  —  especially  to  give  an  account  of 
their  own  papers.  I  think  they  like  to  have  me  put 
in  the  applause,  when  they  get  any.  I  do  that  some 
times."  (How  much  more,  she  did  not  say.) 

"  I  have  seen  some  very  well  written  articles,  which, 
from  what  they  tell  me  of  the  Secretary,  I  should  have 
thought  she  might  have  written  herself." 

He  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"  I  have  transmitted  some  good  papers,"  she  said, 
without  winking,  or  swallowing,  or  changing  color,  — 
precious  little  color  she  had  to  change  ;  her  brain 
wanted  all  the  blood  it  could  borrow  or  steal,  and 
more  too.  "You  spoke  of  Newspapers,"  she  said, 
without  any  change  of  tone  or  manner :  "  do  you  not 
frequently  write  for  them  yourself  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  answered  the  young  man. 
"  I  am  a  regular  correspondent  of  '  The  People's 
Perennial  and  Household  Inquisitor.'  ' 

"  The  regular  correspondent  from  where  ?  " 

"  Where  !  Oh,  anywhere,  —  the  place  does  not 
make  much  difference.  I  have  been  writing  chiefly 
from  Naples  and  St.  Petersburg,  and  now  and  then 
from  Constantinople." 

"  How  long  since  your  return  to  this  countrv,  may 
I  ask?" 

"  My  return  ?  I  have  never  been  out  of  this  coun 
try.  I  travel  with  a  gazetteer  and  some  guide-books. 
It  is  the  cheapest  way,  and  you  can  get  the  facts  much 
better  from  them  than  by  trusting  your  own  observa- 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  133 

tion.  I  have  made  the  tour  of  Europe  by  the  help  of 
them  and  the  newspapers.  But  of  late  I  have  taken 
to  interviewing.  I  find  that  a  very  pleasant  specialty. 
It  is  about  as  good  sport  as  trout-tickling,  and  much 
the  same  kind  of  business.  I  should  like  to  send  the 
Society  an  account  of  one  of  my  interviews.  Don't 
you  think  they  would  like  to  hear  it?" 

"  I  have  no  doubt  they  would.  Send  it  to  me,  and 
I  will  look  it  over ;  and  if  the  Committee  approve  it, 
we  will  have  it  at  the  next  meeting.  You  know  every 
thing  has  to  be  examined  and  voted  on  by  the  Com 
mittee,"  said  the  cautious  Secretary. 

"Very  well,  —  I  will  risk  it.  After  it  is  read,  if  it 
is  read,  please  send  it  back  to  me,  as  I  want  to  sell  it 
to  '  The  Sifter,'  or  '  The  Second  Best,'  or  some  of  the 
paying  magazines." 

This  is  the  paper,  which  was  read  at  the  next  meet 
ing  of  the  Pansophian  Society. 

"  I  was  ordered  by  the  editor  of  the  newspaper  to 
which  I  am  attached,  '  The  People's  Perennial  and 
Household  Inquisitor,'  to  make  a  visit  to  a  certain  well- 
known  writer,  and  obtain  all  the  particulars  I  could 
concerning  him  and  all  that  related  to  him.  I  have 
interviewed  a  good  many  politicians,  who  I  thought 
rather  liked  the  process ;  but  I  had  never  tried  any 
of  these  literary  people,  and  I  was  not  quite  sure  how 
this  one  would  feel  about  it.  1  said  as  much  to  the 
chief,  but  he  pooh-poohed  my  scruples.  '  It  is  n't  our 
business  whether  they  like  it  or  not,'  said  he ;  *  the 
public  wants  it,  and  what  the  public  wants  it 's  bound 
to  have,  and  we  are  bound  to  furnish  it.  Don't  be 
afraid  of  your  man  ;  he  's  used  to  it,  —  he  's  been 
pumped  often  enough  to  take  it  easy,  and  what  you  've 


134  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

got  to  do  is  to  pump  him  dry.  You  need  n't  be 
modest,  —  ask  him  what  you  like ;  he  is  n't  bound  to 
answer,  you  know.' 

"  As  he  lived  in  a  rather  nice  quarter  of  the  town, 
I  smarted  myself  up  a  little,  put  on  a  fresh  collar  and 
cuffs,  and  got  a  five-cent  shine  on  my  best  high-lows. 
I  said  to  myself,  as  I  was  walking  towards  the  house 
where  he  lived,  that  I  would  keep  very  shady  for  a 
while  and  pass  for  a  visitor  from  a  distance ;  one  of 
those  '  admiring  strangers,'  who  call  in  to  pay  their  re 
spects,  to  get  an  autograph,  and  go  home  and  say  that 
they  have  met  the  distinguished  So  and  So,  which  gives 
them  a  certain  distinction  in  the  village  circle  to  which 
they  belong. 

"  My  man,  the  celebrated  writer,  received  me  in 
what  was  evidently  his  reception-room.  I  observed 
that  he  managed  to  get  the  light  full  on  my  face,  while 
his  own  was  in  the  shade.  I  had  meant  to  have  his 
face  in  the  light,  but  he  knew  the  localities,  and  had 
arranged  things  so  as  to  give  him  that  advantage.  It 
was  like  two  frigates  mano3uvring,  —  each  trying  to 
get  to  windward  of  the  other.  I  never  take  out  my 
note-book  until  I  and  my  man  have  got  engaged  in 
artless  and  earnest  conversation,  —  always  about  him 
self  and  his  works,  of  course,  if  he  is  an  author. 

"I  began  by  saying  that  he  must  receive  a  good 
many  callers.  Those  who  had  read  his  books  were 
naturally  curious  to  see  the  writer  of  them. 

"  He  assented,  emphatically,  to  this  statement.  He 
had,  he  said,  a  great  many  callers. 

"  I  remarked  that  there  was  a  quality  in  his  books 
which  made  his  readers  feel  as  if  they  knew  him  per 
sonally,  and  caused  them  to  cherish  a  certain  attach, 
ment  to  him. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  135 

"  He  smiled,  as  if  pleased.  He  was  himself  disposed 
to  think  so,  he  said.  In  fact,  a  great  many  persons, 
strangers  writing  to  him,  had  told  him  so. 

"  My  dear  sir,  I  said,  there  is  nothing  wonderful  in 
the  fact  you  mention.  You  reach  a  responsive  chord 
in  many  human  breasts. 

'  One  touch  of  Nature  makes  the  whole  world  kin.' 

Everybody  feels  as  if  he,  and  especially  she  (his  eyes 
sparkled),  were  your  blood  relation.  Do  they  not 
name  their  children  after  you  very  frequently  ? 

"  He  blushed  perceptibly.  '  Sometimes,'  he  an 
swered.  '  I  hope  they  will  all  turn  out  well.' 

"I  am  afraid  I  am  taking  up  too  much  of  your 
time,  I  said. 

" '  No,  not  at  all,'  he  replied.  '  Come  up  into  my 
library ;  it  is  warmer  and  pleasanter  there.' 

"  I  felt  confident  that  I  had  him  by  the  right  han 
dle  then  ;  for  an  author's  library,  which  is  commonly 
his  working-room,  is,  like  a  lady's  boudoir,  a  sacred 
apartment. 

"  So  we  went  upstairs,  and  again  he  got  me  with 
the  daylight  on  my  face,  when  I  wanted  it  on  ft  is. 

"  You  have  a  fine  library,  I  remarked.  There  were 
books  all  round  the  room,  and  one  of  those  whirligig 
square  book-cases.  I  saw  in  front  a  Bible  and  a  Con 
cordance,  Shakespeare  and  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke's 
book,  and  other  classical  works  and  books  of  grave  as 
pect.  I  contrived  to  give  it  a  turn,  and  on  the  side 
next  the  wall  I  got  a  glimpse  of  Barnum's  Rhyming 
Dictionary,  and  several  Dictionaries  of  Quotations  and 
cheap  compends  of  knowledge.  Always  twirl  one  of 
those  revolving  book-cases  when  you  visit  a  scholar's 
library.  That  is  the  way  to  find  out  what  books  he 


136  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

does  n't  want  you  to  see,  which  of  course  are  the  ones 
you  particularly  wish  to  see. 

"  Some  may  call  all  this  impertinent  and  inquisitive. 
What  do  you  suppose  is  an  interviewer's  business  ? 
Did  you  ever  see  an  oyster  opened  ?  Yes  ?  Well,  an 
interviewer's  business  is  the  same  thing.  His  man  is 
his  oyster,  which  he,  not  with  sword,  but  with  pencil 
and  note-book,  must  open.  Mark  how  the  oysterman's 
thin  blade  insinuates  itself,  —  how  gently  at  first,  how 
strenuously  when  once  fairly  between  the  shells ! 

"And  here,  I  said,  you  write  your  books, — those 
books  which  have  carried  your  name  to  all  parts  of 
the  world,  and  will  convey  it  down  to  posterity !  Is 
this  the  desk  at  which  you  write  ?  And  is  this  the  pen 
you  write  with  ? 

"  '  It  is  the  desk  and  the  very  pen,'  he  replied. 

"  He  was  pleased  with  my  questions  and  my  way  of 
putting  them.  I  took  up  the  pen  as  reverentially  as 
if  it  had  been  made  of  the  feather  which  the  angel  I 
used  to  read  about  in  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts  " 
ought  to  have  dropped,  and  did  n't. 

"  Would  you  kindly  write  your  autograph  in  my 
note-book,  with  that  pen?  I  asked  him.  Yes,  he 
would,  with  great  pleasure. 

"  So  I  got  out  my  note-book. 

"It  was  a  spick  and  span  new  one,  bought  on 
purpose  for  this  interview.  I  admire  your  book 
cases,  said  I.  Can  you  tell  me  just  how  high  they 
are? 

"  '  They  are  about  eight  feet,  with  the  cornice.' 

"I  should  like  to  have  some  like  those,  if  I  ever 
get  rich  enough,  said  I.  Eight  feet,  —  eight  feet,  with 
the  cornice.  I  must  put  that  down. 

"  So  I  got  out  my  pencil. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  137 

"  I  sat  there  with  my  pencil  and  note-book  in  my 
hand,  all  ready,  but  not  using  them  as  yet. 

"  I  have  heard  it  said,  I  observed,  that  you  began 
writing  poems  at  a  very  early  age.  Is  it  taking  too 
great  a  liberty  to  ask  how  early  you  began  to  write  in 
verse  ? 

"  He  was  getting  interested,  as  people  are  apt  to  be 
when  they  are  themselves  the  subjects  of  conversation. 

" '  Very  early,  —  I  hardly  know  how  early.  I  can 
say  truly,  as  Louise  Colet  said, 

"Jejis  mes  premiers  vers  sans  savoir  les  e'crire."  ' 

"  I  am  not  a  very  good  French  scholar,  said  I ;  per 
haps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  translate  that  line 
for  me. 

"  '  Certainly.  With  pleasure.  I  made  my  first 
verses  without  knoiving  how  to  tvrite  them? 

"  How  interesting !  But  I  never  heard  of  Louise 
Colet.  Who  was  she  ? 

"  My  man  was  pleased  to  give  me  a  piece  of  literary 
information. 

"  '  Louise  the  lioness !  Never  heard  of  her  ?  You 
have  heard  of  Alphonse  Karr  ?  ' 

"  Why,  —  yes,  —  more  or  less.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
am  not  very  well  up  in  French  literature.  What  had 
he  to  do  with  your  lioness  ? 

"  '  A  good  deal.  He  satirized  her,  and  she  waited 
at  his  door  with  a  case-knife  in  her  hand,  intending  to 
stick  him  with  it.  By  and  by  he  came  down,  smoking 
a  cigarette,  and  was  met  by  this  woman  flourishing 
her  case-knife.  He  took  it  from  her,  after  getting  a 
cut  in  his  dressing-gown,  put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  went 
on  with  his  cigarette.  He  keeps  it  with  an  inscrip 
tion  :  — 


138  A   MOKTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Donne  a  Alphonse  Karr 
Par  Madame  Louise  Colet  .  .  . 
Dans  le  dos. 

Lively  little  female  !  ' 

"  I  could  n't  help  thinking  that  I  should  n't  have 
cared  to  interview  the  lively  little  female.  He  was 
evidently  tickled  with  the  interest  I  appeared  to  take 
in  the  story  he  told  me.  That  made  him  feel  amiably 
disposed  toward  me. 

"  I  began  with  very  general  questions,  but  by  de 
grees  I  got  at  everything  about  his  family  history  and 
the  small  events  of  his  boyhood.  Some  of  the  points 
touched  upon  were  delicate,  but  I  put  a  good  bold  face 
on  my  most  audacious  questions,  and  so  I  wormed  out 
a  great  deal  that  was  new  concerning  my  subject.  He 
had  been  written  about  considerably,  and  the  public 
would  n't  have  been  satisfied  without  some  new  facts ; 
and  these  I  meant  to  have,  and  I  got.  No  matter 
about  many  of  them  now,  but  here  are  some  questions 
and  answers  that  may  be  thought  worth  reading  or  lis 
tening  to  :  — 

"  How  do  you  enjoy  being  what  they  call  '  a  celeb 
rity,'  or  a  celebrated  man  ? 

" '  So  far  as  one's  vanity  is  concerned  it  is  well 
enough.  But  self-love  is  a  cup  without  any  bottom, 
and  you  might  pour  the  Great  Lakes  all  through  it, 
and  never  fill  it  up.  It  breeds  an  appetite  for  more 
of  the  same  kind.  It  tends  to  make  the  celebrity  a 
mere  lump  of  egotism.  It  generates  a  craving  for 
high-seasoned  personalities  which  is  in  danger  of  be 
coming  slavery,  like  that  following  the  abuse  of  alco 
hol,  or  opium,  or  tobacco.  Think  of  a  man's  having 
every  day,  by  every  post,  letters  that  tell  him  he  is 
this  and  that  and  the  other,  with  epithets  and  endear- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  139 

raents,  one  tenth  part  of  which  would  have  made  him 
blush  red  hot  before  he  began  to  be  what  you  call  a 
celebrity ! ' 

"  Are  there  not  some  special  inconveniences  con 
nected  with  what  is  called  celebrity  ? 

"  '  I  should  think  so !  Suppose  you  were  obliged 
every  day  of  your  life  to  stand  and  shake  hands,  as 
the  President  of  the  United  States  has  to  after  his  in 
auguration  :  how  do  you  think  your  hand  would  feel 
after  a  few  months'  practice  of  that  exercise  ?  Sup 
pose  you  had  given  you  thirty-five  millions  of  money  a 
year,  in  hundred-dollar  coupons,  on  condition  that  you 
cut  them  all  off  yourself  in  the  usual  manner :  how  do 
you  think  you  should  like  the  look  of  a  pair  of  scissors 
at  the  end  of  a  year,  in  which  you  had  worked  ten 
hours  a  day  every  day  but  Sunday,  cutting  off  a  hun 
dred  coupons  an  hour,  and  found  you  had  not  finished 
your  task,  after  all  ?  You  have  addressed  me  as  what 
you  are  pleased  to  call "  a  literary  celebrity."  I  won't 
dispute  with  you  as  to  whether  or  not  I  deserve  that 
title.  I  will  take  it  for  granted  I  am  what  you  call 
me,  and  give  you  some  few  hints  of  my  experience. 

"  '  You  know  there  was  formed  a  while  ago  an  As 
sociation  of  Authors  for  Self-Protection.  It  meant 
well,  and  it  was  hoped  that  something  would  come  of 
it  in  the  way  of  relieving  that  oppressed  class,  but  I 
am  sorry  to  say  that  it  has  not  effected  its  purpose.' 

"  I  suspected  he  had  a  hand  in  drawing  up  the  Con 
stitution  and  Laws  of  that  Association.  Yes,  I  said, 
an  admirable  Association  it  was,  and  as  much  needed 
as  the  one  for  the  Prevention  of  Cruelty  to  Animals. 
I  am  sorry  to  hear  that  it  has  not  proved  effectual  in 
putting  a  stop  to  the  abuse  of  a  deserving  class  of  men. 
It  ought  to  have  done  it ;  it  was  well  conceived,  and 


140  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

its  public  manifesto  was  a  masterpiece.  (I  saw  by  his 
expression  that  he  was  its  author.) 

"  '  I  see  I  can  trust  you,'  he  said.  '  I  will  unbosom 
myself  freely  of  some  of  the  grievances  attaching  to 
the  position  of  the  individual  to  whom  you  have  ap 
plied  the  term  "  Literary  Celebrity." 

" '  He  is  supposed  to  be  a  millionaire,  in  virtue  of 
the  immense  sales  of  his  books,  all  the  money  from 
which,  it  is  taken  for  granted,  goes  into  his  pocket. 
Consequently,  all  subscription  papers  are  handed  to 
him  for  his  signature,  and  every  needy  stranger  who 
has  heard  his  name  comes  to  him  for  assistance. 

"  '  He  is  expected  to  subscribe  for  all  periodicals, 
and  is  goaded  by  receiving  blank  formulae,  which,  with 
their  promises  to  pay,  he  is  expected  to  fill  up. 

"  '  He  receives  two  or  three  books  daily,  with  re 
quests  to  read  and  give  his  opinion  about  each  of  them, 
which  opinion,  if  it  has  a  word  which  can  be  used  as 
an  advertisement,  he  will  find  quoted  in  all  the  news 
papers. 

"  *  He  receives  thick  masses  of  manuscript,  prose 
and  verse,  which  he  is  called  upon  to  examine  and  pro 
nounce  on  their  merits ;  these  manuscripts  having  al 
most  invariably  been  rejected  by  the  editors  to  whom 
they  have  been  sent,  and  having  as  a  rule  no  literary 
value  whatever. 

"  '  He  is  expected  to  sign  petitions,  to  contribute  to 
journals,  to  write  for  fairs,  to  attend  celebrations,  to 
make  after-dinner  speeches,  to  send  money  for  objects 
he  does  not  believe  in  to  places  he  never  heard  of. 

"  '  He  is  called  on  to  keep  up  correspondences  with 
unknown  admirers,  who  begin  by  saying  they  have  no 
claim  upon  his  time,  and  then  appropriate  it  by  writ 
ing  page  after  page,  if  of  the  male  sex;  and  sheet 
after  sheet,  if  of  the  other. 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  141 

"  *  If  a  poet,  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  he  can  sit 
down  at  any  moment  and  spin  off  any  number  of 
verses  on  any  subject  which  may  be  suggested  to  him ; 
such  as  congratulations  to  the  writer's  great-grand 
mother  on  her  reaching  her  hundredth  year,  an  elegy 
on  an  infant  aged  six  weeks,  an  ode  for  the  Fourth  of 
July  in  a  Western  township  not  to  be  found  in  Lip- 
pincott's  last  edition,  perhaps  a  valentine  for  some 
bucolic  lover  who  believes  that  wooing  in  rhyme  is  the 
way  to  win  the  object  of  his  affections.' 

"  Is  n't  it  so  ?  I  asked  the  Celebrity. 

"  '  I  would  bet  on  the  prose  lover.  She  will  show 
the  verses  to  him,  and  they  will  both  have  a  good 
laugh  over  them.' 

"  I  have  only  reported  a  small  part  of  the  conversa 
tion  I  had  with  the  Literary  Celebrity.  He  was  so 
much  taken  up  with  his  pleasing  self-contemplation, 
while  I  made  him  air  his  opinions  and  feelings  and 
spread  his  characteristics  as  his  laundress  spreads  and 
airs  his  linen  on  the  clothes-line,  that  I  don't  believe  it 
ever  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  been  in  the  hands  of 
an  interviewer  until  he  found  himself  exposed  to  the 
wind  and  sunshine  in  full  dimensions  in  the  columns  of 
'The  People's -Perennial  and  Household  Inquisitor.'" 

After  the  reading  of  this  paper,  much  curiosity  was 
shown  as  to  who  the  person  spoken  of  as  the  "  Liter 
ary  Celebrity  "  might  be.  Among  the  various  suppo 
sitions  the  startling  idea  was  suggested  that  he  was 
neither  more  nor  less  than  the  unexplained  personage 
known  in  the  village  as  Maurice  Kirkwood.  '  Why 
should  that  be  his  real  name  ?  Why  should  not  he  be 
the  Celebrity,  who  had  taken  this  name  and  fled  to 


142  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

this  retreat  to  escape  from  the  persecutions  of  kind 
friends,  who  were  pricking  him  and  stabbing  him  nigh 
to  death  with  their  daggers  of  sugar  candy  ? 

The  Secretary  of  the  Pansophian  Society  determined 
to  question  the  Interviewer  the  next  time  she  met  him 
at  the  Library,  which  happened  soon  after  the  meeting 
when  his  paper  was  read. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  she  said,  in  the  course  of  a  con 
versation  in  which  she  had  spoken  warmly  of  his  con 
tribution  to  the  literary  entertainment  of  the  Society, 
"  that  you  mentioned  the  name  of  the  Literary  Celeb 
rity  whom  you  interviewed  so  successfully." 

"  I  did  not  mention  him,  Miss  Vincent,"  he  an 
swered,  "  nor  do  I  think  it  worth  while  to  name  him. 
He  might  not  care  to  have  the  whole  story  told  of  how 
he  was  handled  so  as  to  make  him  communicative. 
Besides,  if  I  did,  it  would  bring  him  a  new  batch  of 
sympathetic  letters,  regretting  that  he  was  bothered  by 
those  horrid  correspondents,  full  of  indignation  at  the 
bores  who  presumed  to  intrude  upon  him  with  their 
pages  of  trash,  all  the  writers  of  which  would  expect 
answers  to  their  letters  of  condolence." 

The  Secretary  asked  the  Interviewer  if  he  knew  the 
young  gentleman  who  called  himself  Maurice  Kirk- 
wood. 

"  What,"  he  answered,  —  "  the  man  that  paddles  a 
birch  canoe,  and  rides  all  the  wild  horses  of  the  neigh 
borhood  ?  No,  I  don't  know  him,  but  I  have  met  him 
once  or  twice,  out  walking.  A  mighty  shy  fellow, 
they  tell  me.  Do  you  know  anything  particular  about 
him?" 

"  Not  much.  None  of  us  do,  but  we  should  like  to. 
The  story  is  that  he  has  a  queer  antipathy  to  some' 
thing  or  to  somebody,  nobody  knows  what  or  whom.' 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  143 

"  To  newspaper  correspondents,  perhaps,"  said  the 
Interviewer.  "  What  made  you  ask  me  about  him? 
You  did  n't  think  he  was  my  '  Literary  Celebrity,' 
did  you?" 

"  I  did  not  know.  I  thought  he  might  be.  Why 
don't  you  interview  this  mysterious  personage?  He 
would  make  a  good  sensation  for  your  paper,  I  should 
think." 

"  Why,  what  is  there  to  be  interviewed  in  him  ?  Is 
there  any  story  of  crime,  or  anything  else  to  spice  a 
column  or  so,  or  even  a  few  paragraphs,  with?  If 
there  is,  I  am  willing  to  handle  him  professionally." 

"  I  told  you  he  has  what  they  call  an  antipathy.  I 
don't  know  how  much  wiser  you  are  for  that  piece  of 
information." 

"  An  antipathy  !  Why,  so  have  I  an  antipathy.  I 
hate  a  spider,  and  as  for  a  naked  caterpillar,  —  I  be 
lieve  I  should  go  into  a  fit  if  I  had  to  touch  one.  I 
know  I  turn  pale  at  the  sight  of  some  of  those  great 
green  caterpillars  that  come  down  from  the  elm-trees 
in  August  and  early  autumn." 

"  Afraid  of  them  ?  "  asked  the  young  lady. 

"Afraid?  What  should  I  be  afraid  of?  They 
can't  bite  or  sting.  I  can't  give  any  reason.  All  I 
know  is  that  when  I  come  across  one  of  these  creatures 
in  my  path  I  jump  to  one  side,  and  cry  out,  —  some 
times  using  very  improper  words.  The  fact  is,  they 
make  me  crazy  for  the  moment." 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,"  said  Miss  Vincent. 
"  I  used  to  have  the  same  feeling  about  spiders,  but  I 
was  ashamed  of  it,  and  kept  a  little  menagerie  of  spi 
ders  until  I  had  got  over  the  feeling :  that  is,  pretty 
much  got  over  it,  for  I  don't  love  the  creatures  very 
dearly,  though  I  don't  scream  when  I  see  one." 


144  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

"  What  did  you  tell  me,  Miss  Vincent,  was  this  fel 
low's  particular  antipathy?  " 

"  That  is  just  the  question.  I  told  you  that  we 
don't  know  and  we  can't  guess  what  it  is.  The  peo 
ple  here  are  tired  out  with  trying4  to  discover  some 
good  reason  for  the  young  man's  keeping  out  of  the 
way  of  everybody,  as  he  does.  They  say  he  is  odd  or 
crazy,  and  they  don't  seem  to  be  able  to  tell  which.  It 
would  make  the  old  ladies  of  the  village  sleep  a  great 
deal  sounder,  —  yes,  and  some  of  the  young  ladies, 
too,  —  if  they  could  find  out  what  this  Mr.  Kirkwood 
has  got  into  his  head,  that  he  never  comes  near  any  of 
the  people  here." 

"  I  think  /  can  find  out,"  said  the  Interviewer, 
whose  professional  ambition  was  beginning  to  be  ex 
cited.  "•  I  never  came  across  anybody  yet  that  I 
could  n't  get  something  out  of.  I  am  going  to  stay 
here  a  week  or  two,  and  before  I  go  I  will  find  out 
the  secret,  if  there  is  any,  of  this  Mr.  Maurice  Kirk- 
wood." 

We  must  leave  the  Interviewer  to  his  contrivances 
until  they  present  us  with  some  kind  of  result,  either 
in  the  shape  of  success  or  failure. 


XI. 

THE   INTERVIEWER   ATTACKS   THE   SPHINX. 

WHEN  Miss  Euthymia  Tower  sent  her  oar  off  in 
flashing  splinters,  as  she  pulled  her  last  stroke  in  the 
boat-race,  she  did  not  know  what  a  strain  she  was  put 
ting  upon  it.  She  did  know  that  she  was  doing  her 
best,  but  how  great  the  force  of  her  best  was  she  was 
not  aware  until  she  saw  its  effects.  Unconsciousness 
belonged  to  her  robust  nature,  in  all  its  manifestations. 
She  did  not  pride  herself  on  her  knowledge,  nor  re 
proach  herself  for  her  ignorance.  In  every  way  she 
formed  a  striking  contrast  to  her  friend,  Miss  Vincent. 
Every  word  they  spoke  betrayed  the  difference  be 
tween  them  :  the  sharp  tones  of  Lurida's  head-voice, 
penetrative,  aggressive,  sometimes  irritating,  revealed 
the  corresponding  traits  of  mental  and  moral  charac 
ter;  the  quiet,  conversational  contralto  of  Euthymia 
was  the  index  of  a  nature  restful  and  sympathetic. 

The  friendships  of  young  girls  prefigure  the  closer 
relations  which  will  one  day  come  in  and  dissolve  their 
earlier  intimacies.  The  dependence  of  two  young 
friends  may  be  mutual,  but  one  will  always  lean  more 
heavily  than  the  other ;  the  masculine  and  feminine 
elements  will  be  as  sure  to  assert  themselves  as  if  the 
friends  were  of  different  sexes. 

On  all  common  occasions  Euthymia  looked  up  to 
her  friend  as  her  superior.  She  fully  appreciated  all 
her  varied  gifts  and  knowledge,  and  deferred  to  her 
10 


146  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

opinion  in  every-day  matters,  not  exactly  as  an  oracle, 
but  as  wiser  than  herself  or  any  of  her  other  compan 
ions.  It  was  a  different  thing,  however,  when  the 
graver  questions  of  life  came  up.  Lurida  was  full  of 
suggestions,  plans,  projects,  which  were  too  liable  to 
run  into  whims  before  she  knew  where  they  were  tend 
ing.  She  would  lay  out  her  ideas  before  Euthymia  so 
fluently  and  eloquently  that  she  could  not  help  believing 
them  herself,  and  feeling  as  if  her  friend  must  accept 
them  with  an  enthusiasm  like  her  own.  Then  Euthy 
mia  would  take  them  up  with  her  sweet,  deliberate  ac 
cents,  and  bring  her  calmer  judgment  to  bear  on  them. 

Lurida  was  in  an  excited  condition,  in  the  midst  of 
all  her  new  interests  and  occupations.  She  was  con 
stantly  on  the  lookout  for  papers  to  be  read  at  the 
meetings  of  her  Society,  —  for  she  made  it  her  own  in 
great  measure,  by  her  zeal  and  enthusiasm,  —  and  in 
the  mean  time  she  was  reading  in  various  books  which 
Dr.  Butts  selected  for  her,  all  bearing  on  the  profes 
sion  to  which,  at  least  as  a  possibility,  she  was  looking 
forward.  Privately  and  in  a  very  still  way,  she  was 
occupying  herself  with  the  problem  of  the  young 
stranger,  the  subject  of  some  delusion,  or  disease,  or 
obliquity  of  unknown  nature,  to  which  the  vague 
name  of  antipathy  had  been  attached.  Euthymia  kept 
an  eye  upon  her,  partly  in  the  fear  that  over-excite 
ment  would  produce  some  mental  injury,  and  partly 
from  anxiety  lest  she  should  compromise  her  womanly 
dignity  in  her  desire  to  get  at  the  truth  of  a  very  puz 
zling  question. 

"  How  do  you  like  the  books  I  see  you  reading  ?  " 
said  Euthymia  to  Lurida,  one  day,  as  they  met  at  the 
Library. 

"  Better  than  all  the  novels  I  ever  read,"  she  an- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  147 

swered.  "  I  have  been  reading  about  the  nervous 
system,  and  it  seems  to  me  I  have  come  nearer  the 
springs  of  life  than  ever  before  in  all  my  studies.  I 
feel  just  as  if  I  were  a  telegraph  operator.  I  was  sure 
that  I  had  a  battery  in  my  head,  for  I  know  my  brain 
works  like  one  ;  but  I  did  not  know  how  many  centres 
of  energy  there  are,  and  how  they  are  played  upon 
by  all  sorts  of  influences,  external  and  internal.  Do 
you  know,  I  believe  I  could  solve  the  riddle  of  the 
'  Arrowhead  Village  Sphinx,'  as  the  paper  called  him, 
if  he  would  only  stay  here  long  enough  ?  " 

"  What  paper  has  had  anything  about  it,  Lurida  ? 
I  have  not  seen  or  heard  of  its  being  mentioned  in 
any  of  the  papers." 

"  You  know  that  rather  queer-looking  young  man 
who  has  been  about  here  for  some  time,  —  the  same 
one  who  gave  the  account  of  his  interview  with  a  cele 
brated  author  ?  Well,  he  has  handed  me  a  copy  of 
a  paper  in  which  he  writes,  '  The  People's  Perennial 
and  Household  Inquisitor.'  He  talks  about  this  vil 
lage  in  a  very  free  and  easy  way.  Ho  says  there  is  a 
Sphinx  here,  who  has  mystified  us  all." 

"  And  you  have  been  chatting  with  that  fellow ! 
Don't  you  know  that  he  '11  have  you  and  all  of  us  in 
his  paper?  Don't  you  know  that  nothing  is  safe 
where  one  of  those  fellows  gets  in  with  his  note-book 
and  pencil  ?  Oh,  Lurida,  Lurida,  do  be  careful ! 
What  with  this  mysterious  young  man  and  this  very 
questionable  newspaper-paragraph  writer,  you  will  be 
talked  about,  if  you  don't  mind,  before  you  know  it.v 
You  had  better  let  the  riddle  of  the  Sphinx  alone. 
If  you  must  deal  with  such  dangerous  people,  the 
safest  way  is  to  set  one  of  them  to  find  out  the  other. 
—  I  wonder  if  we  can't  get  this  new  man  to  interview 


148  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

the  visitor  you  have  so  much  curiosity  about.  That 
might  be  managed  easily  enough  without  your  having 
anything  to  do  with  it.  Let  me  alone,  and  I  will  ar 
range  it.  But  mind,  now,  you  must  not  meddle  ;  if 
you  do,  you  will  spoil  everything,  and  get  your  name  in 
the  '  Household  Inquisitor'  in  away  you  won't  like." 

"  Don't  be  frightened  about  me,  Euthymia.  I  don't 
mean  to  give  him  a  chance  to  work  me  into  his  paper," 
if  I  can  help  it.  But  if  you  can  get  him  to  try  his 
skill  upon  this  interesting  personage  and  his  antipathy, 
so  much  the  better.  I  am  very  curious  about  it,  and 
therefore  about  him.  I  want  to  know  what  has  pro 
duced  this  strange  state  of  feeling  in  a  young  man 
who  ought  to  have  all  the  common  instincts  of  a  social 
being.  I  believe  there  are  unexplained  facts  in  the 
region  of  sympathies  and  antipathies  which  will  repay 
study  with  a  deeper  insight  into  the  mysteries  of  life 
than  we  have  dreamed  of  hitherto.  I  often  wonder 
whether  there  are  not  heart- waves  and  soul-waves  as 
well  as  '  brain-waves,'  which  some  have  already  recog 
nized." 

Euthymia  wondered,  as  well  she  might,  to  hear  this 
young  woman  talking  the  language  of  science  like  an 
adept.  The  truth  is,  Lurida  was  one  of  those  persons 
who  never  are  young,  and  who,  by  way  of  compensa 
tion,  will  never  be  old.  They  are  found  in  both  sexes. 
Two  well-known  graduates  of  one  of  our  great  uni 
versities  are  living  examples  of  this  precocious  but 
enduring  intellectual  development.  If  the  readers  of 
this  narrative  cannot  pick  them  out,  they  need  not 
expect  the  writer  of  it  to  help  them.  If  they  guess 
rightly  who  they  are,  they  will  recognize  the  fact  that 
just  such  exceptional  individuals  as  the  young  woman 
we  are  dealing  with  are  met  with  from  time  to  time 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  149 

in  families  where  intelligence  has  been  cumulative  for 
two  or  three  generations. 

Euthymia  was  very  willing  that  the  questioning  and 
questionable  visitor  should  learn  all  that  was  known  in 
the  village  about  the  nebulous  individual  whose  misty 
environment  all  the  eyes  in  the  village  were  trying  to 
penetrate,  but  that  he  should  learn  it  from  some  other 
informant  than  Lurida. 

The  next  morning,  as  the  Interviewer  took  his  seat 
on  a  bench  outside  his  door,  to  smoke  his  after-break 
fast  cigar,  a  bright-looking  and  handsome  youth,  whose 
features  recalled  those  of  Euthymia  so  strikingly  that 
one  might  feel  pretty  sure  he  was  her  brother,  took  a 
seat  by  his  side.  Presently  the  two  were  engaged  in 
conversation.  The  Interviewer  asked  all  sorts  of  ques 
tions  about  everybody  in  the  village.  When  he  came 
to  inquire  about  Maurice,  the  youth  showed  a  remark 
able  interest  regarding  him.  The  greatest  curiosity, 
he  said,  existed  with  reference  to  this  personage. 
Everybody  was  trying  to  find  out  what  his  story  was, 

—  fOr  a  story,  and  a  strange  one,  he  must  surely  have, 

—  and  nobody  had  succeeded. 

The  Interviewer  began  to  be  unusually  attentive. 
The  young  man  told  him  the  various  antipathy  stories, 
about  the  evil-eye  hypothesis,  about  his  horse-taming 
exploits,  his  rescuing  the  student  whose  boat  was  over 
turned,  and  every  occurrence  he  could  recall  which 
would  help  out  the  effect  of  his  narrative. 

The  Interviewer  was  becoming  excited.  "  Can't 
find  out  anything  about  him,  you  said,  did  n't  you  ? 
How  do  you  know  there  's  anything  to  find  ?  Do  you 
want  to  know  what  I  think  he  is?  I  '11  tell  you.  I 
think  he  is  an  actor,  —  a  fellow  from  one  of  the  city 
theatres.  Those  fellows  go  off  in  their  summer  vaca- 


150  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tion,  and  like  to  puzzle  the  country  folks.  They  are 
the  very  same  chaps,  like  as  not,  the  visitors  have  seen 
in  plays  at  the  city  theatres  ;  but  of  course  they  don't 
know  'em  in  plain  clothes.  Kings  and  Emperors  look 
pretty  shabby  off  the  stage  sometimes,  I  can  tell  you." 

The  young  man  followed  the  Interviewer's  lead.  "  I 
should  n't  wonder  if  you  were  right,"  he  said.  "  I  re 
member  seeing  a  young  fellow  in  Romeo  that  looked  a 
good  deal  like  this  one.  But  I  never  met  the  Sphinx, 
as  they  call  him,  face  to  face.  He  is  as  shy  as  a  wood- 
chuck.  I  believe  there  are  people  here  that  would 
give  a  hundred  dollars  to  find  out  who  he  is,  and 
where  he  came  from,  and  what  he  is  here  for,  and  why 
he  does  n't  act  like  other  folks.  I  wonder  why  some 
of  those  newspaper  men  don't  come  up  here  and  get 
hold  of  this  story.  It  would  be  just  the  thing  for  a 
sensational  writer." 

To  all  this  the  Interviewer  listened  with  true  pro 
fessional  interest.  Always  on  the  lookout  for  some 
thing  to  make  up  a  paragraph  or  a  column  about ; 
driven  oftentimes  to  the  stalest  of  repetitions,  —  to 
the  biggest  pumpkin  story,  the  tall  cornstalk,  the  fat 
ox,  the  live  frog  from  the  human  stomach  story,  the 
third  set  of  teeth  and  reading  without  spectacles  at 
ninety  story,  and  the  rest  of  the  marvellous  common 
places  which  are  kept  in  type  with  e  o  y  or  e  6  m 
(every  other  year  or  every  six  months)  at  the  foot ; 
always  in  want  of  a  fresh  incident,  a  new  story,  an  un- 
described  character,  an  unexplained  mystery,  it  is  no 
wonder  that  the  Interviewer  fastened  eagerly  upon 
this  most  tempting  subject  for  an  inventive  and  emo 
tional  correspondent. 

He  had  seen  Paolo  several  times,  and  knew  that  ho 
was  Maurice's  confidential  servant,  but  had  never 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  151 

spoken  to  him.  So  he  said  to  himself  that  he  must 
make  Paolo's  acquaintance,  to  begin  with.  In  the 
summer  season  many  kinds  of  small  traffic  were  al 
ways  carried  on  in  Arrowhead  Village.  Among  the 
rest,  the  sellers  of  fruits  —  oranges,  bananas,  and 
others,  according  to  the  seasons  —  did  an  active  busi 
ness.  The  Interviewer  watched  one  of  these  fruit- 
sellers,  and  saw  that  his  hand-cart  stopped  opposite 
the  house  where,  as  he  knew,  Maurice  Kirkwood  was 
living.  Presently  Paolo  came  out  of  the  door,  and 
began  examining  the  contents  of  the  hand-cart.  The 
Interviewer  saw  his  opportunity.  Here  was  an  intro 
duction  to  the  man,  and  the  man  must  introduce  him 
to  the  master. 

He  knew  very  well  how  to  ingratiate  himself  with 
the  man,  —  there  was  no  difficulty  about  that.  He 
had  learned  his  name,  and  that  he  was  an  Italian 
whom  Maurice  had  brought  to  this  country  with  him. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  Paul,"  he  said.  "How  do 
you  like  the  look  of  these  oranges?  " 

"  They  pretty  fair,"  said  Paolo :  "  no  so  good  as 
them  las'  week ;  no  sweet  as  them  was." 

"  Why,  how  do  you  know  without  tasting  them  ?  " 
said  the  Interviewer. 

"  I  know  by  his  look,  —  I  know  by  his  smell,  —  he 
no  good  yaller,  —  he  no  smell  ripe,  —  I  know  orange 
ever  since  my  head  no  bigger  than  he  is,"  and  Paolo 
laughed  at  his  own  comparison. 

The  Interviewer  laughed  louder  than  Paolo. 
"  Good !  "  said  he,  —  "  first-rate !  Of  course  you 
know  all  about  'em.  Why  can't  you  pick  me  out  a 
couple  of  what  you  think  are  the  best  of  'em  ?  I  shall 
be  greatly  obliged  to  you.  I  have  a  sick  friend,  and 
I  want  to  get  two  nice  sweet  ones  for  him." 


152  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Paolo  was  pleased.  His  skill  and  judgment  were 
recognized.  He  felt  grateful  to  the  stranger,  who  had 
given  him  an  opportunity  of  conferring  a  favor.  He 
selected  two,  after  careful  examination  and  grave  delib 
eration.  The  Interviewer  had  sense  and  tact  enough 
not  to  offer  him  an  orange,  and  so  shift  the  balance  of 
obligation. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Kirkwood,  to-day  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  II  Signer  ?  He  very  well.  He  always  well.  Why 
you  ask  ?  Anybody  tell  you  he  sick  ?  " 

"  No,  nobody  said  he  was  sick.  I  have  n't  seen  him 
going  about  for  a  day  or  two,  and  I  thought  he  might 
have  something  the  matter  with  him.  Is  he  in  the 
house  now  ?  " 

"  No  :  he  off  riding.  He  take  long,  long  rides,  — 
sometime  gone  all  day.  Sometime  he  go  on  lake,  — 
paddle,  paddle  in  the  morning,  very,  very  early,  —  in 
night  when  the  moon  shine ;  sometime  stay  in  house, 
and  read,  and  study,  and  write,  —  he  great  scholar, 
Misser  Kirkwood." 

"  A  good  many  books,  has  n't  he  ?  " 

"  He  got  whole  shelfs  full  of  books.  Great  books, 
little  books,  old  books,  new  books,  all  sorts  of  books. 
He  great  scholar,  I  tell  you." 

"  Has  n't  he  some  curiosities,  —  old  figures,  old  jew 
elry,  old  coins,  or  things  of  that  sort  ?  " 

Paolo  looked  at  the  young  man  cautiously,  almost 
suspiciously.  "  He  don't  keep  no  jewels  nor  no  money 
in  his  chamber.  He  got  some  old  things,  —  old  jugs, 
old  brass  figgers,  old  money,  such  as  they  used  to  have 
in  old  times:  she  don't  pass  now."  Paolo's  genders 
were  apt  to  be  somewhat  indiscriminately  distributed. 

A  lucky  thought  struck  the  Interviewer.  "  I  wonder 
if  he  would  examine  some  old  coins  of  mine?"  said 
he,  in  a  modestly  tentative  manner. 


A   MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  153 

"  I  think  ho  like  to  see  anything  curious.  "When 
he  come  home  I  ask  him.  Who  will  I  tell  him  wants 
to  ask  him  about  old  coin  ?  " 

"  Tell  him  a  gentleman  visiting1  Arrowhead  Village 
would  like  to  call  and  show  him  some  old  pieces  of 
money,  said  to  be  Roman  ones." 

The  Interviewer  had  just  remembered  that  he  had 
two  or  three  old  battered  bits  of  copper  which  he  had 
picked  up  at  a  tollman's,  where  they  had  been  passed 
off  for  cents.  He  had  bought  them  as  curiosities. 
One  had  the  name  of  Gallienus  upon  it,  tolerably  dis 
tinct,  —  a  common  little  Roman  penny ;  but  it  would 
serve  his  purpose  of  asking  a  question,  as  would  two 
or  three  others  with  less  legible  legends.  Paolo  told 
him  that  if  he  came  tbo  next  morning  he  would  stand 
a  fair  chance  of  seeing  Mr.  Kirkwood.  At  any  rate, 
he  would  speak  to  his  master. 

The  Interviewer  presented  himself  the  next  morn 
ing,  after  finishing  his  breakfast  and  his  cigar,  feeling 
reasonably  sure  of  finding  Mr.  Kirkwood  at  home,  as 
he  proved  to  be.  Pie  had  told  Paolo  to  show  the 
stranger  up  to  his  library,  —  or  study,  as  he  modestly 
called  it. 

It  was  a  pleasant  room  enough,  with  a  lookout  011 
the  lake  in  one  direction,  and  the  wooded  hill  in 
another.  The  tenant  had  fitted  it  up  in  scholarly 
fashion.  The  books  Paolo  spoke  of  were  conspicuous, 
many  of  them,  by  their  white  vellum  binding  and 
tasteful  gilding,  showing  that  probably  they  had  been 
bound  in  Rome,  or  some  other  Italian  city.  With 
these  were  older  volumes  in  their  dark  original  leather, 
and  recent  ones  in  cloth  or  paper.  As  the  Interviewer 
ran  his  eye  over  them,  he  found  that  he  could  make 
very  little  out  of  what  their  backs  taught  him.  Some 


154  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

of  the  paper-covered  books,  some  of  the  cloth-covered 
ones,  had  names  which  he  knew ;  but  those  on  the 
backs  of  many  of  the  others  were  strange  to  his  eyes. 
The  classics  of  Greek  and  Latin  and  Italian  literature 
were  there  ;  and  he  saw  enough  to  feel  convinced  that 
he  had  better  not  attempt  to  display  his  erudition  in 
the  company  of  this  young  scholar. 

The  first  thing  the  Interviewer  had  to  do  was  to  ac 
count  for  his  visiting  a  person  who  had  not  asked  to 
make  his  acquaintance,  and  who  was  living  as  a  re 
cluse.  He  took  out  his  battered  coppers,  and  showed 
them  to  Maurice. 

"  I  understood  that  you  were  very  skilful  in  antiqui 
ties,  and  had  a  good  many  yourself.  So  I  took  the 
liberty  of  calling  upon  you,  hoping  that  you  could  tell 
me  something  about  some  ancient  coins  I  have  had  for 
a  good  while."  So  saying,  he  pointed  to  the  copper 
with  the  name  of  Gallienus. 

"Is  this  very  rare  and  valuable?  I  have  heard 
that  great  prices  have  been  paid  for  some  of  these  an 
cient  coins,  —  ever  so  many  guineas,  sometimes.  I 
suppose  this  is  as  much  as  a  thousand  years  old." 

"  More  than  a  thousand  years  old,"  said  Maurice. 

"  And  worth  a  great  deal  of  money  ? "  asked  the 
Interviewer. 

"  No,  not  a  great  deal  of  money,"  answered  Mau 
rice. 

"  How  much,  should  you  say  ? "  said  the  Inter 
viewer. 

Maurice  smiled.  "  A  little  more  than  the  value  of 
its  weight  in  copper,  —  lam  afraid  not  much  more. 
There  are  a  good  many  of  these  coins  of  Gallienus 
knocking  about.  The  peddlers  and  the  shopkeepers 
take  such  pieces  occasionally,  and  sell  them,  some- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY  155 

times  for  five  or  ten  cents,  to  young  collectors.  No,  it 
is  not  very  precious  in  money  value,  but  as  a  relic  any 
piece  of  money  that  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand  a 
thousand  or  fifteen  hundred  years  ago  is  interesting. 
The  value  of  such  relics  is  a  good  deal  a  matter  of  im 
agination." 

"  And  what  do  you  say  to  these  others  ?  "  asked  the 
Interviewer.  Poor  old  worn-out  things  they  were, 
with  a  letter  or  two  only,  and  some  faint  trace  of  a 
figure  on  one  or  two  of  them. 

"  Very  interesting,  always,  if  they  carry  your  imagi 
nation  back  to  the  times  when  you  may  suppose  they 
were  current.  Perhaps  Horace  tossed  one  of  them  to 
a  beggar.  Perhaps  one  of  these  was  the  coin  that  was 
brought  when  One  said  to  those  about  Him,  '  Bring 
me  a  penny,  that  I  may  see  it.'  But  the  market  price 
is  a  different  matter.  That  depends  on  the  beauty 
and  preservation,  and  above  all  the  rarity,  of  the  spec 
imen.  Here  is  a  coin,  now,"  —  he  opened  a  small 
cabinet,  and  took  one  from  it.  "  Here  is  a  Syracusan 
decadrachm  with  the  head  of  Persephone,  which  is  at 
once  rare,  well  preserved,  and  beautiful.  I  am  afraid 
to  tell  what  I  paid  for  it." 

The  Interviewer  was  not  an  expert  in  numismatics. 
He  cared  very  little  more  for  an  old  coin  than  he  did 
for  an  old  button,  but  he  had  thought  his  purchase  at 
the  tollman's  might  prove  a  good  speculation.  No 
matter  about  the  battered  old  pieces:  he  had  found 
out,  at  any  rate,  that  Maurice  must  have  money  and 
could  be  extravagant,  or  what  he  himself  considered 
so ;  also  that  he  was  familiar  with  ancient  coins.  That 
would  do  for  a  beginning. 

"  May  I  ask  where  you  picked  up  the  coin  you  are 
showing  me?  "  he  said. 


156  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

"  That  is  a  question  which  provokes  a  negative  an 
swer.  One  does  not  '  pick  up '  first-class  coins  or 
paintings,  very  often,  in  these  times.  I  bought  this  of 
a  great  dealer  in  Home." 

"  Lived  in  Rome  once  ?  "  said  the  Interviewer. 

"  For  some  years.  Perhaps  you  have  been  there 
yourself?  " 

The  Interviewer  said  he  had  never  been  there  yet, 
but  he  hoped  he  should  go  there,  one  of  these  years. 
"  I  suppose  you  studied  art  and  antiquities  while  you 
were  there  ?  "  he  continued. 

"Everybody  who  goes  to  Rome  must  learn  some 
thing  of  art  and  antiquities.  Before  you  go  there  I 
advise  you  to  review  Roman  history  and  the  classic 
authors.  You  had  better  make  a  study  of  ancient  and 
modern  art,  and  not  have  everything  to  learn  while 
you  are  going  about  among  ruins,  and  churches,  and 
galleries.  You  know  your  Horace  and  Virgil  well,  I 
take  it  for  granted  ?  " 

The  Interviewer  hesitated.  The  names  sounded  as 
if  he  had  heard  them.  "  Not  so  well  as  I  mean  to  be 
fore  going  to  Rome,"  ho  answered.  "  May  I  ask  how 
long  you  lived  in  Rome  ?  " 

"  Long  enough  to  know  something  of  what  is  to  be 
seen  in  it.  No  one  should  go  there  without  careful 
preparation  beforehand.  You  are  familiar  with  Ya- 
Bari,  of  course?" 

The  Interviewer  felt  a  slight  moisture  on  his  fore 
head.  He  took  out  his  handkerchief.  "  It  is  a  warm 
day,"  he  said.  "  I  have  not  had  time  to  read  all  tho 
works  I  mean  to.  I  have  had  too  much  writing  to  do, 
myself,  to  find  all  the  time  for  reading  and  study  I 
could  have  wished." 

"  In  what  literary  occupation  have  you  been  en- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  157 

gaged,  if  you  will  pardon  my  inquiry?  said  Mau 
rice. 

"  I  am  connected  with  the  press.  I  understood  that 
you  were  a  man  of  letters,  and  I  hoped  I  might  have 
the  privilege  of  hearing  from  your  own  lips  some  ac 
count  of  your  literary  experiences." 

"  Perhaps  that  might  be  interesting,  but  I  think  I 
shall  reserve  it  for  my  autobiography.  You  said  you 
were  connected  with  the  press.  Do  I  understand  that 
you  are  an  author?" 

By  this  time  the  Interviewer  had  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  it  was  a  very  warm  day.  He  did  not 
seem  to  be  getting  hold  of  his  pitcher  by  the  right 
handle,  somehow.  But  he  could  not  help  answering 
Maurice's  very  simple  question. 

"  If  writing  for  a  newspaper  gives  one  a  right  to  be 
called  an  author,  I  may  call  myself  one.  I  write  for 
the  '  People's  Perennial  and  Household  Inquisitor.'  " 

"  Are  you  the  literary  critic  of  that  well-known 
journal,  or  do  you  manage  the  political  column  ?  " 

"  I  am  a  correspondent  from  different  places  and 
on  various  matters  of  interest." 

"  Places  you  have  been  to,  and  people  you  have 
known?" 

"Well,  yes, — generally,  that  is.  Sometimes  I  have 
to  compile  my  articles." 

"  Did  you  write  the  letter  from  Home,  published  a 
few  weeks  ago? " 

The  Interviewer  was  in  what  he  would  call  a  tight 
place.  However,  he  had  found  that  his  man  was  too 
much  for  him,  and  saw  that  the  best  thing  he  could 
do  was  to  submit  to  be  interviewed  himself.  He 
thought  that  he  should  be  able  to  pick  up  something 
or  other  which  he  could  work  into  his  report  of  his 
visit. 


158  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

"  Well,  I  —  prepared  that  article  for  our  columns. 
You  know  one  does  not  have  to  see  everything  he  de 
scribes.  You  found  it  accurate,  I  hope,  in  its  descrip 
tions?" 

"  Yes,  Murray  is  generally  accurate.  Sometimes 
he  makes  mistakes,  but  I  can't  say  how  far  you  have 
copied  them.  You  got  the  Ponte  Molle  —  the  old 
Milvian  bridge  —  a  good  deal  too  far  down  the  stream, 
if  I  remember.  I  happened  to  notice  that,  but  I  did 
not  read  the  article  carefully.  May  I  ask  whether 
you  propose  to  do  me  the  honor  of  reporting  this  visit 
and  the  conversation  we  have  had,  for  the  columns  of 
the  newspaper  with  which  you  are  connected  ?  " 

The  Interviewer  thought  he  saw  an  opening.  "  If 
you  have  no  objections,"  he  said,  "  I  should  like  very 
much  to  ask  a  few  questions."  He  was  recovering  his 
professional  audacity. 

"  You  can  ask  as  many  questions  as  you  consider 
proper  and  discreet,  —  after  you  have  answered  one  or 
two  of  mine :  Who  commissioned  you  to  submit  me  to 
examination  ?  " 

"  The  curiosity  of  the  public  wishes  to  be  gratified, 
and  I  am  the  humble  agent  of  its  investigations." 

"What  has  the  public  to  do  with  my  private  af 
fairs?" 

"  I  suppose  it  is  a  question  of  majority  and  minor 
ity.  That  settles  everything  in  this  country.  You 
are  a  minority  of  one  opposed  to  a  large  number  of 
curious  people  that  form  a  majority  against  you.  That 
is  the  way  I  've  heard  the  chief  put  it." 

Maurice  could  not  help  smiling  at  the  quiet  assump 
tion  of  the  American  citizen.  The  Interviewer  smiled, 
too,  and  thought  he  had  his  man,  sure,  at  last.  Mau 
rice  calmly  answered,  "  There  is  nothing  left  for  mi- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  159 

norities,  then,  but  the  right  of  rebellion.  I  don't  care 
about  being  made  the  subject  of  an  article  for  your 
paper.  I  am  here  for  my  pleasure,  minding  my  own 
business,  and  content  with  that  occupation.  I  rebel 
against  your  system  of  forced  publicity.  Whenever 
I  am  ready  I  shall  tell  the  public  all  it  has  any  right 
to  know  about  me.  In  the  mean  time  I  shall  request 
to  be  spared  reading  my  biography  while  I  am  living. 
I  wish  you  a  good-morning." 

The  Interviewer  had  not  taken  out  his  note-book 
and  pencil.  In  his  next  communication  from  Arrow 
head  Village  he  contented  himself  with  a  brief  men 
tion  of  the  distinguished  and  accomplished  gentleman 
now  visiting  the  place,  whose  library  and  cabinet  of 
coins  he  had  had  the  privilege  of  examining,  and 
whose  courtesy  was  equalled  only  by  the  modesty  that 
shunned  the  public  notoriety  which  the  organs  of 
popular  intelligence  would  otherwise  confer  upon  him. 

The  Interviewer  had  attempted  the  riddle  of  tho 
Sphinx,  and  had  failed  to  get  the  first  hint  of  its  solu 
tion. 

The  many  tongues  of  the  village  and  its  visitors 
could  not  remain  idle.  The  whole  subject  of  antipa 
thies  had  been  talked  over,  and  the  various  cases  re 
corded  had  become  more  or  less  familiar  to  the  con 
versational  circles  which  met  every  evening  in  the 
different  centres  of  social  life.  The  prevalent  hypoth 
esis  for  the  moment  was  that  Maurice  had  a  congeni 
tal  aversion  to  some  color,  the  effects  of  which  upon 
him  were  so  painful  or  disagreeable  that  he  habit 
ually  avoided  exposure  to  it.  It  was  known,  and  it 
has  already  been  mentioned,  that  such  cases  were  on 
record.  There  had  been  a  great  deal  of  discussion,  of 


160  A   MOETAL   ANTIPATHY. 

late,  with  reference  to  a  fact  long  known  to  a  few 
individuals,  but  only  recently  made  a  matter  of  care 
ful  scientific  observation  and  brought  to  the  notice  of 
the  public.  This  was  the  now  well-known  phenom 
enon  of  color-blindness.  It  did  not  seem  very  strange 
that  if  one  person  in  every  score  or  two  could  not 
tell  red  from  green  there  might  be  other  curious  in 
dividual  peculiarities  relating  to  color.  A  case  has 
already  been  referred  to  where  the  subject  of  obser 
vation  fainted  at  the  sight  of  any  red  object.  What 
if  this  were  the  trouble  with  Maurice  Kirkwood?  It 
will  be  seen  at  once  how  such  a  congenital  antipathy 
would  tend  to  isolate  the  person  who  was  its  unfortu 
nate  victim.  It  was  an  hypothesis  not  difficult  to  test, 
but  it  was  a  rather  delicate  business  to  be  experiment 
ing  on  an  inoffensive  stranger.  Miss  Vincent  was 
thinking  it  over,  but  said  nothing,  even  to  Euthymia, 
of  any  projects  she  might  entertain. 


XII. 

MISS  VINCENT  AS   A  MEDICAL   STUDENT. 

THE  young  lady  whom  we  have  known  as  The  Ter 
ror,  as  Lurida,  as  Miss  Vincent,  Secretary  of  the  Pan- 
sophian  Society,  had  been  reading  various  works  se 
lected  for  her  by  Dr.  Butts,  —  works  chiefly  relating 
to  the  nervous  system  and  its  different  affections.  She 
thought  it  was  about  time  to  talk  over  the  general 
subject  of  the  medical  profession  with  her  new  teacher, 
—  if  such  a  self -directing  person  as  Lurida  could  be 
said  to  recognize  anybody  as  teacher. 

She  began  at  the  beginning.  "  What  is  the  first 
book  you  would  put  in  a  student's  hands,  doctor?" 
she  said  to  him  one  day.  They  were  in  his  study,  and 
Lurida  had  just  brought  back  a  thick  volume  on  In 
sanity,  one  of  Bucknill  and  Tuke's,  which  she  had  de 
voured  as  if  it  had  been  a  pamphlet. 

"  Not  that  book,  certainly,"  he  said.  "  I  am  afraid 
it  will  put  all  sorts  of  notions  into  your  head.  Who 
or  what  set  you  to  reading  that,  I  should  like  to 
know?" 

"  I  found  it  on  one  of  your  shelves,  and  as  I  thought 
I  might  perhaps  be  crazy  some  time  or  other,  I  felt  as 
if  I  should  like  to  know  what  kind  of  a  condition  in 
sanity  is.  I  don't  believe  they  were  ever  very  bright, 
those  insane  people,  most  of  them.  I  hope  I  am  not 
stupid  enough  ever  to  lose  my  wits." 

"  There  is  no  telling,  my  dear,  what  may  happen  if 
11 


162  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

you  overwork  that  busy  brain  of  yours.  But  did  n't 
it  make  you  nervous,  reading  about  so  many  people 
possessed  with  such  strange  notions  ?  " 

"  Nervous  ?  Not  a  bit.  I  could  n't  help  thinking, 
though,  how  many  people  I  had  known  that  had  a  lit 
tle  touch  of  craziness  about  them.  Take  that  poor 
woman  that  says  she  is  Her  Majesty's  Person,  —  not 
Her  Majesty,  but  Her  Majesty's  Person,  —  a  very 
important  distinction,  according  to  her :  how  she  does 
remind  me  of  more  than  one  girl  I  have  known  !  She 
would  let  her  skirts  down  so  as  to  make  a  kind  of 
train,  and  pile  things  on  her  head  like  a  sort  of  crown, 
fold  her  arms  and  throw  her  head  back,  and  feel  as 
grand  as  a  queen.  I  have  seen  more  than  one  girl 
act  very  much  in  that  way.  Are  not  most  of  us  a  lit 
tle  crazy,  doctor,  —  just  a  little?  I  think  so.  It 
seems  to  me  I  never  saw  but  one  girl  who  was  free 
from  every  hint  of  craziness." 

"  And  who  was  that,  pray  ?  " 

"  Why,  Euthymia,  —  nobody  else,  of  course.  She 
never  loses  her  head,  —  I  don't  believe  she  would  in 
an  earthquake.  Whenever  we  were  at  work  with  our 
microscopes  at  the  Institute  I  always  told  her  that  her 
mind  was  the  only  achromatic  one  I  ever  looked  into, 
—  I  did  n't  say  looked  through.  —  But  I  did  n't  come 
to  talk  about  that.  I  read  in  one  of  your  books  that 
when  Sydenham  was  asked  by  a  student  what  books 
he  should  read,  the  great  physician  said,  '  Read  "  Don 
Quixote."  :  I  want  you  to  explain  that  to  me ;  and 
then  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  is  the  first  book,  ac 
cording  to  your  idea,  that  a  student  ought  to  read." 

"  What  do  you  say  to  my  taking  your  question  as 
the  subject  of  a  paper  to  be  read  before  the  Society  ? 
I  think  there  may  be  other  young  ladies  at  the  meet- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  163 

ing,  besides  yourself,  who  are  thinking  of  pursuing  the 
study  of  medicine.  At  any  rate,  there  are  a  good 
many  who  are  interested  in  the  subject ;  in  fact,  most 
people  listen  readily  to  anything  doctors  tell  them 
about  their  calling." 

"  I  wish  you  would,  doctor.  I  want  Euthymia  to 
hear  it,  and  I  don't  doubt  there  will  be  others  who  will 
be  glad  to  hear  everything  you  have  to  say  about  it. 
But  oh,  doctor,  if  you  could  only  persuade  Euthymia 
to  become  a  physician!  What  a  doctor  she  would 
make !  So  strong,  so  calm,  so  full  of  wisdom  !  I  be 
lieve  she  could  take  the  wheel  of  a  steamboat  in  a 
storm,  or  the  hose  of  a  fire-engine  in  a  conflagration, 
and  handle  it  as  well  as  the  captain  of  the  boat  or  of 
the  fire-company." 

"  Have  you  ever  talked  with  her  about  studying 
medicine?" 

"  Indeed  I  have.  Oh,  if  she  would  only  begin  with 
me !  What  good  times  we  would  have  studying  to 
gether  !  " 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.  Medicine  is  a  very  pleasant 
study.  But  how  do  you  think  practice  would  be? 
How  would  you  like  being  called  up  to  ride  ten  miles 
in  a  midnight  snow-storm,  just  when  one  of  your  rag 
ing  headaches  was  racking  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but  we  could  go  into  partnership,  and  Euthy 
mia  is  n't  afraid  of  storms  or  anything  else.  If  she 
would  only  study  medicine  with  me !  " 

"  Well,  what  does  she  say  to  it?" 

"  She  does  n't  like  the  thought  of  it.  She  does  n't 
believe  in  women  doctors.  She  thinks  that  now  and 
then  a  woman  may  be  fitted  for  it  by  nature,  but  she 
does  n't  think  there  are  many  who  are.  She  gives  me 
a  good  many  reasons  against  their  practising  medicine, 


164  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

—  you  know  what  most  of  them  are,  doctor,  —  and 
ends  by  saying  that  the  same  woman  who  would  be  a 
poor  sort  of  doctor  would  make  a  first-rate  nurse ;  and 
that,  she  thinks,  is  a  woman's  business,  if  her  instinct 
carries  her  to  the  hospital  or  sick-chamber.  I  can't 
argue  her  ideas  out  of  her." 

"  Neither  can  I  argue  you  out  of  your  feeling  about 
the  matter;  but  I  am  disposed  to  agree  with  your 
friend,  that  you  will  often  spoil  a  good  nurse  to  make 
a  poor  doctor.  Doctors  and  side-saddles  don't  seem  to 
me  to  go  together.  Hiding  habits  would  be  awkward 
things  for  practitioners.  But  come,  we  won't  have  a 
controversy  just  now.  I  am  for  giving  women  every 
chance  for  a  good  education,  and  if  they  think  medi 
cine  is  one  of  their  proper  callings  let  them  try  it.  I 
think  they  will  find  that  they  had  better  at  least  limit 
themselves  to  certain  specialties,  and  always  have  an 
expert  of  the  other  sex  to  fall  back  upon.  The  trouble 
is  that  they  are  so  impressible  and  imaginative  that 
they  are  at  the  mercy  of  all  sorts  of  fancy  systems. 
You  have  only  to  see  what  kinds  of  instruction  they 
very  commonly  flock  to  in  order  to  guess  whether  they 
would  be  likely  to  prove  sensible  practitioners.  Char 
latanism  always  hobbles  on  two  crutches,  the  tattle  of 
women,  and  the  certificates  of  clergymen,  and  I  am 
afraid  that  half  the  women  doctors  will  be  too  much 
under  both  those  influences." 

Lurida  believed  in  Dr.  Butts,  who,  to  use  the  com 
mon  language  of  the  village,  had  "  carried  her  through  " 
a  fever,  brought  on  by  over-excitement  and  exhaust 
ing  study.  She  took  no  offence  at  his  reference  to 
nursery  gossip,  which  she  had  learned  to  hold  cheap. 
Nobody  so  despises  the  weaknesses  of  women  as  the 
champion  of  woman's  rights.  She  accepted  the  doc- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  165 

tor's  concession  of  a  fair  field  and  open  trial  of  the 
fitness  of  her  sex  for  medical  practice,  and  did  not 
trouble  herself  about  his  suggested  limitations.  As  to 
the  imaginative  tendencies  of  women,  she  knew  too 
well  the  truth  of  the  doctor's  remark  relating  to  them 
to  wish  to  contradict  it. 

"  Be  sure  you  Jet  me  have  your  paper  in  season  for 
the  next  meeting,  doctor,"  she  said ;  and  in  due  season 
it  came,  and  was  of  course  approved  for  reading. 


XIII. 

DR.   BUTTS  READS   A  PAPER. 

"  NEXT  to  the  interest  we  take  in  all  that  relates  to 
our  immortal  souls  is  that  which  we  feel  for  our  mor 
tal  bodies.  I  am  afraid  my  very  first  statement  may 
be  open  to  criticism.  The  care  of  the  body  is  the  first 
thought  with  a  great  many,  —  in  fact,  with  the  larger 
part  of  the  world.  They  send  for  the  physician  first, 
and  not  until  he  gives  them  up  do  they  commonly  call 
in  the  clergyman.  Even  the  minister  himself  is  not  so 
very  different  from  other  people.  We  must  not  blame 
him  if  he  is  not  always  impatient  to  exchange  a  world 
of  multiplied  interests  and  ever-changing  sources  of 
excitement  for  that  which  tradition  has  delivered  to  us 
as  one  eminently  deficient  in  the  stimulus  of  variety. 
Besides,  these  bodily  frames,  even  when  worn  and  dis 
figured  by  long  years  of  service,  hang  about  our  con 
sciousness  like  old  garments.  They  are  used  to  us, 
and  we  are  used  to  them.  And  all  the  accidents  of 
our  lives,  —  the  house  we  dwell  in,  the  living  people 
round  us,  the  landscape  we  look  over,  all,  up  to  the 
sky  that  covers  us  like  a  bell  glass,  —  all  these  are  but 
looser  outside  garments  which  we  have  worn  until  they 
seem  a  part  of  us,  and  we  do  not  like  the  thought  of 
changing  them  for  a  new  suit  which  we  have  never  yet 
tried  on.  How  well  I  remember  that  dear  ancient 
lady,  who  lived  well  into  the  last  decade  of  her  cen 
tury,  as  she  repeated  the  verse  which,  if  I  had  but  one 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  167 

to  choose,  I  would  select  from  that  string  of  pearls, 
Gray's  '  Elegy  ' !  — 

'  For  who  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey 

This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? ' 

Plotinus  was  ashamed  of  his  body,  we  are  told.  Bet 
ter  so,  it  may  be,  than  to  live  solely  for  it,  as  so  many 
do.  But  it  may  be  well  doubted  if  there  is  any  dis 
ciple  of  Plotinus  in  this  Society.  On  the  contrary, 
there  are  many  who  think  a  great  deal  of  their  bodies, 
many  who  have  come  here  to  regain  the  health  they 
have  lost  in  the  wear  and  tear  of  city  life,  and  very 
few  who  have  not  at  some  time  or  other  of  their  lives 
had  occasion  to  call  in  the  services  of  a  physician. 

"  There  is,  therefore,  no  impropriety  in  my  offering 
to  the  members  some  remarks  upon  the  peculiar  diffi 
culties  which  beset  the  medical  practitioner  in  the  dis 
charge  of  his  laborious  and  important  duties. 

"  A  young  friend  of  mine,  who  has  taken  an  interest 
in  medical  studies,  happened  to  meet  with  a  very  famil 
iar  story  about  one  of  the  greatest  and  most  celebrated 
of  all  English  physicians,  Thomas  Sydenham.  The 
story  is  that,  when  a  student  asked  him  what  books  he 
should  read,  the  great  doctor  told  him  to  read  '  Don 
Quixote.' 

"  This  piece  of  advice  has  been  used  to  throw  con 
tempt  upon  the  study  of  books,  and  furnishes  a  con 
venient  shield  for  ignorant  pretenders.  But  Sydenham 
left  many  writings  in  which  he  has  recorded  his  med 
ical  experience,  and  he  surely  would  not  have  published 
them  if  he  had  not  thought  they  would  be  better  read 
ing  for  the  medical  student  than  the  story  of  Cervan 
tes.  His  own  works  are  esteemed  to  this  day,  and  he 


168  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

certainly  could  not  have  supposed  that  they  contained 
all  the  wisdom  of  all  the  past.  No  remedy  is  good,  it 
was  said  of  old,  unless  applied  at  the  right  time  in  the 
right  way.  So  we  may  say  of  all  anecdotes,  like  this 
which  I  have  told  you  about  Sydenham  r.nd  the  young 
man.  It  is  very  likely  that  he  carried  him  to  the  bed 
side  of  some  patients,  and  talked  to  him  about  the 
cases  he  showed  him,  instead  of  putting  a  Latin  vol 
ume  in  his  hand.  I  would  as  soon  begin  in  £hat  way 
as  any  other,  with  a  student  who  had  already  mastered 
the  preliminary  branches,  —  who  knew  enough  about 
the  structure  and  functions  of  the  body  in  health. 

"  But  if  you  ask  me  what  reading  I  would  com 
mend  to  the  medical  student  of  a  philosophical  habit 
of  mind,  you  may  be  surprised  to  hear  me  say  it  would 
be  certain  passages  in  '  Kasselas.'  They  are  the  ones 
where  the  astronomer  gives  an  account  to  Imlac  of  his 
management  of  the  elements,  the  control  of  which,  as 
he  had  persuaded  himself,  had  been  committed  to  him. 
Let  me  read  you  a  few  sentences  from  this  story,  which 
is  commonly  bound  up  with  the  '  Vicar  of  Wakefield,' 
like  a  woollen  lining  to  a  silken  mantle,  but  is  full  of 
stately  wisdom  in  processions  of  paragraphs  which, 
sound  as  if  they  ought  to  have  a  grammatical  drum- 
major  to  march  before  their  tramping  platoons. 

"  The  astronomer  has  taken  Imlac  into  his  confi 
dence,  and  reveals  to  him  the  secret  of  his  wonderful 
powers :  — 

"  '  Hear,  Imlac,  what  thou  wilt  not  without  difficulty 
credit.  I  have  possessed  for  five  years  the  regulation 
of  the  weather  and  the  distribution  of  the  seasons : 
the  sun  has  listened  to  my  dictates,  and  passed  from 
tropic  to  tropic  by  my  direction;  the  clouds,  at  my 
call,  have  poured  their  waters,  and  the  Nile  has  over- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  169 

flowed  at  my  command ;  I  have  restrained  the  rage  of 
the  dog-star,  and  mitigated  the  fervors  of  the  crab. 
The  winds  alone,  of  all  the  elemental  powers,  have 
hitherto  eluded  my  authority,  and  multitudes  have 
perished  by  equinoctial  tempests,  which  I  found  ruy- 
seli  unable  to  prohibit  or  restrain.' 

"  The  reader  naturally  wishes  to  kno-v  how  the  as 
tronomer,  a  sincere,  devoted,  and  most  benevolent 
man,  for  forty  years  a  student  of  the  heavens,  came 
to  the  strange  belief  that  he  possessed  these  miracu 
lous  powers.  This  is  his  account :  — 

"  '  One  day,  as  I  was  looking  on  the  fields  withering 
with  heat,  I  felt  in  my  mind  a  sudden  wish  that  I 
could  send  rain  on  the  southern  mountains,  and  raise 
the  Nile  to  an  inundation.  In  the  hurry  of  my  imagi 
nation  I  commanded  rain  to  fall,  and  by  comparing 
the  time  of  my  command  with  that  of  the  inundation 
I  found  that  the  clouds  had  listened  to  my  lips.' 

"  '  Might  not  some  other  cause,'  said  I,  '  produce 
this  concurrence  ?  The  Nile  does  not  always  rise  on 
the  same  day.' 

" '  Do  not  believe,'  said  he,  with  impatience,  '  that 
such  objections  could  escape  me:  I  reasoned  long 
against  my  own  conviction,  and  labored  against  truth 
with  the  utmost  obstinacy.  I  sometimes  suspected 
myself  of  madness,  and  should  not  have  dared  to  im 
part  this  secret  but  to  a  man  like  you,  capable  of  dis 
tinguishing  the  wonderful  from  the  impossible  and  the 
incredible  from  the  false.' 

"  The  good  old  astronomer  gives  his  parting  direc 
tions  to  Imlac,  whom  he  has  adopted  as  his  successor 
in  the  government  of  the  elements  and  the  seasons,  in 
these  impressive  words  :  — 

" '  Do  not,  in  the  administration  of  the  year,  in- 


170  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

dulge  thy  pride  by  innovation ;  do  not  please  thyself 
with  thinking  that  thou  canst  make  thyself  renowned 
to  all  future  ages  by  disordering  the  seasons.  The 
memory  of  mischief  is  no  desirable  fame.  Much  less 
will  it  become  thee  to  let  kindness  or  interest  prevaiL 
Never  rob  other  countries  of  rain  to  pour  it  on  thine 
own.  For  us  the  Nile  is  sufficient.' 

"  Do  you  wonder,  my  friends,  why  I  have  chosen 
these  passages,  in  which  the  delusions  of  an  insane 
astronomer  are  related  with  all  the  pomp  of  the  John 
sonian  vocabulary,  as  the  first  lesson  for  the  young 
person  about  to  enter  on  the  study  of  the  science  and 
art  of  healing  ?  Listen  to  me  while  I  show  you  the 
parallel  of  the  story  of  the  astronomer  in  the  history 
of  medicine. 

"  This  history  is  luminous  with  intelligence,  radiant 
with  benevolence,  but  all  its  wisdom  and  all  its  virtue 
have  had  to  struggle  with  the  ever-rising  mists  of  de 
lusion.  The  agencies  which  waste  and  destroy  the 
race  of  mankind  are  vast  and  resistless  as  the  ele 
mental  forces  of  nature  ;  nay,  they  are  themselves  ele 
mental  forces.  They  may  be  to  some  extent  avoided, 
to  some  extent  diverted  from  their  aim,  to  some  ex 
tent  resisted.  So  may  the  changes  of  the  seasons, 
from  cold  that  freezes  to  heats  that  strike  with  sud 
den  death,  be  guarded  against.  So  may  the  tides  be 
in  some  small  measure  restrained  in  their  inroads. 
So  may  the  storms  be  breasted  by  walls  they  cannot 
shake  from  their  foundations.  But  the  seasons  and 
the  tides  and  the  tempests  work  their  will  on  the  great 
scale  upon  whatever  stands  in  their  wray ;  they  feed  or 
starve  the  tillers  of  the  soil ;  they  spare  or  drown  the 
dwellers  by  the  shore  ;  they  waft  the  seaman  to  his 
harbor  or  bury  him  in  the  angry  billows. 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  171 

"  The  art  of  the  physician  can  do  much  to  remove 
its  subjects  from  deadly  and  dangerous  influences,  and 
something  to  control  or  arrest  the  effects  of  these  in 
fluences.  But  look  at  the  records  of  the  life-insurance 
offices,  and  see  how  uniform  is  the  action  of  nature's 
destroying  agencies.  Look  at  the  annual  reports  of 
the  deaths  in  any  of  our  great  cities,  and  see  how  their 
regularity  approaches  the  uniformity  of  the  tides,  and 
their  variations  keep  pace  with  those  of  the  seasons. 
The  inundations  of  the  Nile  are  not  more  certainly  to 
be  predicted  than  the  vast  wave  of  infantile  disease 
which  flows  in  upon  all  our  great  cities  with  the  grow 
ing  heats  of  July,  —  than  the  fevers  and  dysenteries 
which  visit  our  rural  districts  in  the  months  of  the 
falling  leaf. 

"  The  physician  watches  these  changes  as  the  as 
tronomer  watched  the  rise  of  the  great  river.  He 
longs  to  rescue  individuals,  to  protect  communities 
from  the  inroads  of  these  destroying  agencies.  He 
uses  all  the  means  which  experience  has  approved, 
tries  every  rational  method  which  ingenuity  can  sug 
gest.  Some  fortunate  recovery  leads  him  to  believe 
he  has  hit  upon  a  preventive  or  a  cure  for  a  malady 
which  had  resisted  all  known  remedies.  His  rescued 
patient  sounds  his  praises,  and  a  wide  circle  of  his  pa 
tient's  friends  joins  in  a  chorus  of  eulogies.  Self-love 
applauds  him  for  his  sagacity.  Self-interest  congratu 
lates  him  on  his  having  found  the  road  to  fortune  ; 
the  sense  of  having  proved  a  benefactor  of  his  race 
smooths  the  pillow  on  which  he  lays  his  head  to  dream 
of  the  brilliant  future  opening  before  him.  If  a  sin 
gle  coincidence  may  lead  a  person  of  sanguine  disposi 
tion  to  believe  that  he  has  mastered  a  disease  which 
had  baffled  all  who  were  before  his  time,  and  on 


172  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

which  his  contemporaries  looked  in  hopeless  impo« 
tence,  what  must  be  the  effect  of  a  series  of  such  co 
incidences  even  on  a  mind  of  calmer  temper !  Such 
series  of  coincidences  will  happen,  and  they  may  well 
deceive  the  very  elect.  Think  of  Dr.  Rush,  —  you 
know  what  a  famous  man  he  was,  the  very  head  and 
front  of  American  medical  science  in  his  day,  —  and 
remember  how  he  spoke  about  yellow  fever,  which  he 
thought  he  had  mastered  ! 

"  Thus  the  physician  is  entangled  in  the  meshes  of 
a  wide  conspiracy,  in  which  he  and  his  patient  and 
their  friends,  and  Nature  herself,  are  involved.  What 
wonder  that  the  history  of  Medicine  should  be  to  so 
great  an  extent  a  record  of  self-delusion  ! 

"  If  this  seems  a  dangerous  concession  to  the  ene 
mies  of  the  true  science  and  art  of  healing,  I  will  re 
mind  you  that  it  is  all  implied  in  the  first  aphorism  of 
Hippocrates,  the  Father  of  Medicine.  Do  not  draw  a 
wrong  inference  from  the  frank  statement  of  the  diffi 
culties  which  beset  the  medical  practitioner.  Think 
rather,  if  truth  is  so  hard  of  attainment,  how  precious 
are  the  results  which  the  consent  of  the  wisest  and 
most  experienced  among  the  healers  of  men  agrees  in 
accepting.  Think  what  folly  it  is  to  cast  them  aside 
in  favor  of  palpable  impositions  stolen  from  the  rec 
ords  of  forgotten  charlatanism,  or  of  fantastic  specu 
lations  spun  from  the  squinting  brains  of  theorists  as 
wild  as  the  Egyptian  astronomer. 

"  Begin  your  medical  studies,  then,  by  reading  the 
fortieth  and  the  following  four  chapters  of  'Rasselas.' 
Your  first  lesson  will  teach  you  modesty  and  caution 
in  the  pursuit  of  the  most  deceptive  of  all  practical 
branches  of  knowledge.  Faith  will  come  later,  when 
you  learn  how  much  medical  science  and  art  have  act 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  173 

ually  achieved  for  the  relief  of  mankind,  and  how 
great  are  the  promises  it  holds  out  of  still  larger  tri 
umphs  over  the  enemies  of  human  health  and  happi 
ness." 

After  the  reading  of  this  paper  there  was  a  lively 
discussion,  which  we  have  no  room  to  report  here,  and 
the  Society  adjourned. 


XIV. 

MISS  VINCENT'S  STARTLING  DISCOVERY. 

THE  sober-minded,  sensible,  well-instructed  Dr. 
Butts  was  not  a  little  exercised  in  mind  by  the  de 
mands  made  upon  his  knowledge  by  his  young  friend, 
and  for  the  time  being  his  pupil,  Miss  Lurida  Vincent. 

"  I  don't  wonder  they  called  her  The  Terror,"  he 
said  to  himself.  "  She  is  enough  to  frighten  anybody. 
She  has  taken  down  old  books  from  my  shelves  that  I 
had  almost  forgotten  the  backs  of,  and  as  to  the  medi 
cal  journals,  I  believe  the  girl  could  index  them  from 
memory.  She  is  in  pursuit  of  some  special  point  of 
knowledge,  I  feel  sure,  and  I  cannot  doubt  what  direc 
tion  she  is  working  in,  but  her  wonderful  way  of  deal 
ing  with  books  amazes  me." 

What  marvels  those  "first  scholars"  in  the  classes 
of  our  great  universities  and  colleges  are,  to  be  sure ! 
They  are  not,  as  a  rule,  the  most  distinguished  of  their 
class  in  the  long  struggle  of  life.  The  chances  are  that 
"the  field"  will  beat  "the  favorite"  over  the  long 
race-course.  Others  will  develop  a  longer  stride  and 
more  staying  power.  But  what  fine  gifts  those  "  first 
scholars  "  have  received  from  nature  !  How  dull  we 
writers,  famous  or  obscure,  are  in  the  acquisition  of 
knowledge  as  compared  with  them!  To  lead  their 
classmates  they  must  have  quick  apprehension,  fine 
memories,  thorough  control  of  their  mental  faculties, 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  175 

strong  will,  power  of  concentration,  facility  of  expres 
sion,  —  a  wonderful  equipment  of  mental  faculties.  I 
always  want  to  take  my  hat  off  to  the  first  scholar  of 
his  year. 

Dr.  Butts  felt  somewhat  in  the  same  way  as  he  con 
templated  The  Terror.  She  surprised  him  so  often 
with  her  knowledge  that  he  was  ready  to  receive  her 
without  astonishment  when  she  burst  in  upon  him  one 
day  with  a  cry  of  triumph,  "  Eureka  !  Eureka  !  " 

"  And  what  have  you  found,  my  dear  ? "  said  the 
doctor. 

Lurida  was  flushed  and  panting  with  the  excitement 
of  her  new  discovery. 

"  I  do  believe  that  I  have  found  the  secret  of  our 
strange  visitor's  dread  of  all  human  intercourse !  " 

The  seasoned  practitioner  was  not  easily  thrown  off 
his  balance. 

"Wait  a  minute  and  get  your  breath,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Are  you  not  a  little  overstating  his  peculi 
arity?  It  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  that.  He  keeps  a 
man  to  serve  him,  he  was  civil  with  the  people  at  the 
Old  Tavern,  he  was  affable  enough,  I  understand,  with 
the  young  fellow  he  pulled  out  of  the  water,  or  rescued 
somehow,  —  I  don't  believe  he  avoids  the  whole  human 
race.  He  does  not  look  as  if  he  hated  them,  so  far  as 
I  have  remarked  his  expression.  I  passed  a  few  words 
with  him  when  his  man  was  ailing,  and  found  him  po 
lite  enough.  No,  I  don't  believe  it  is  much  more  than 
an  extreme  case  of  shyness,  connected,  perhaps,  with 
some  congenital  or  other  personal  repugnance  to  which 
has  been  given  the  name  of  an  antipathy." 

Lurida  could  hardly  keep  still  while  the  doctor  was 
speaking.  When  he  finished,  she  began  the  account 
of  her  discovery  :  — 


176  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

"  I  do  certainly  believe  I  have  found  an  account  of 
his  case  in  an  Italian  medical  journal  of  about  four 
teen  years  ago.  I  met  with  a  reference  which  led  me 
to  look  over  a  file  of  the  Giornale  degli  Ospifatli  ly 
ing  among  the  old  pamphlets  in  the  medical  section  of 
the  Library.  I  have  made  a  translation  of  it,  which 
you  must  read  and  then  tell  me  if  you  do  not  agree 
with  me  in  my  conclusion." 

"  Tell  me  what  your  conclusion  is,  and  I  will  read 
your  paper  and  see  for  myself  whether  I  think  the 
evidence  justifies  the  conviction  you  seem  to  have 
reached." 

Lurida's  large  eyes  showed  their  whole  rounds  like 
the  two  halves  of  a  map  of  the  world,  as  she  said, — 

"  /  believe  that  Maurice  Kirkwood  is  suffering 
from  the  effects  of  the  bite  of  a  TARANTULA  !  " 

The  doctor  drew  a  long  breath.  He  remembered  in 
a  vague  sort  of  way  the  stories  which  used  to  be  told 
of  the  terrible  Apulian  spider,  but  he  had  consigned 
them  to  the  limbo  of  medical  fable  where  so  many  fic 
tions  have  clothed  themselves  with  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name.  He  looked  into  the  round  eyes  and  wide 
pupils  a  little  anxiously,  as  if  he  feared  that  she  was 
in  a  state  of  undue  excitement,  but,  true  to  his  profes 
sional  training,  he  waited  for  another  symptom,  if  in 
deed  her  mind  was  in  any  measure  off  its  balance. 

"I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  Lurida  said,  "but 
it  is  not  so.  '  I  am  not  mad,  most  noble  Festus.'  You 
shall  see  the  evidence  and  judge  for  yourself.  Read 
the  whole  case,  —  you  can  read  my  hand  almost  as  if 
it  were  print,  —  and  tell  me  if  you  do  not  agree  with 
me  that  this  young  man  is  iu  all  probability  the  same 
person  as  the  boy  described  in  the  Italian  journal 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  177 

One  thing  you  might  say  is  against  the  supposition. 
The  young  patient  is  spoken  of  as  Signorino  M  .  .  . 
Ch.  .  .  .  But  you  must  remember  that  ch  is  pro 
nounced  hard  in  Italian,  like  &,  which  letter  is  want 
ing  in  the  Italian  alphabet ;  and  it  is  natural  enough 
that  the  initial  of  the  second  name  should  have  got 
changed  in  the  record  to  its  Italian  equivalent." 

Before  inviting  the  reader  to  follow  the  details  of 
this  extraordinary  case  as  found  in  a  medical  journal, 
the  narrator  wishes  to  be  indulged  in  a  few  words  of 
explanation,  in  order  that  he  may  not  have  to  apol 
ogize  for  allowing  the  introduction  of  a  subject  which 
may  be  thought  to  belong  to  the  professional  student 
rather  than  to  the  readers  of  this  record.  There  is  a 
great  deal  in  medical  books  which  it  is  very  unbecom 
ing  to  bring  before  the  general  public,  —  a  great  deal 
to  repel,  to  disgust,  to  alarm,  to  excite  unwholesome 
curiosity.  It  is  not  the  men  whose  duties  have  made 
them  familiar  with  this  class  of  subjects  who  are  most 
likely  to  offend  by  scenes  and  descriptions  which  be 
long  to  the  physician's  private  library,  and  not  to  the 
shelves  devoted  to  polite  literature.  Goldsmith  and 
even  Smollett,  both  having  studied  and  practised  med 
icine,  could  not  by  any  possibility  have  outraged  all 
the  natural  feelings  of  delicacy  and  decency  as  Swift 
and  Zola  have  outraged  them.  But  without  handling 
doubtful  subjects,  there  are  many  curious  medical  ex 
periences  which  have  interest  for  every  one  as  extreme 
illustrations  of  ordinary  conditions  with  which  all  are 
acquainted.  No  one  can  study  the  now  familiar  history 
of  clairvoyance  profitably  who  has  not  learned  some 
thing  of  the  vagaries  of  hysteria.  No  one  can  read 
understandingly  the  life  of  Cowper  and  that  of  Carlyle 

12 


178  A  MORTAL    AXTIPATHY. 

without  having  some  idea  of  the  influence  of  hypo- 
chondriasis  and  of  dyspepsia  upon  the  disposition  and 
intellect  of  the  subjects  of  these  maladies.  I  need 
not  apologize,  therefore,  for  giving  publicity  to  that 
part  of  this  narrative  which  deals  with  one  of  the  most 
singular  maladies  to  be  found  in  the  records  of  bodily 
and  mental  infirmities. 

The  following  is  the  account  of  the  case  as  trans 
lated  by  Miss  Vincent.  For  obvious  reasons  the  whole 
name  was  not  given  in  the  original  paper,  and  for 
similar  reasons  the  date  of  the  event  and  the  birth 
place  of  the  patient  are  not  precisely  indicated  here. 

[Giornale  degli  Ospitali,  Luglio  21,  18—.] 
REMARKABLE   CASE    OF   TARANTISM. 

"  The  great  interest  attaching  to  the  very  singular 
and  exceptional  instance  of  this  rare  affection  induces 
us  to  give  a  full  account  of  the  extraordinary  example 
of  its  occurrence  in  a  patient  who  was  the  subject  of 
a  recent  medical  consultation  in  this  city. 

"  Signorino  M  .  .  .  Ch  ...  is  the  only  son  of  a  gen 
tleman  travelling  in  Italy  at  this  time.  He  is  eleven 
years  of  age,  of  sanguine-nervous  temperament,  light 
hair,  blue  eyes,  intelligent  countenance,  well  grown, 
but  rather  slight  in  form,  to  all  appearance  in  good 
health,  but  subject  to  certain  peculiar  and  anomalous 
nervous  symptoms,  of  which  his  father  gives  this  his 
tory. 

"  Nine  years  ago,  the  father  informs  us,  he  was  trav 
elling  in  Italy  with  his  wife,  this  child,  and  a  nurse. 
They  were  passing  a  few  days  in  a  country  village  near 
the  city  of  Bari,  capital  of  the  province  of  the  same 
name  in  the  division  (compartimento^)  of  Apulia.  The 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  179 

child  was  in  perfect  health  and  had  never  been  af 
fected  by  any  serious  illness.  On  the  10th  of  July 
he  was  playing  out  in  the  field  near  the  house  where 
the  family  was  staying  when  he  was  heard  to  scream 
suddenly  and  violently.  The  nurse  rushing  to  him 
found  him  in  great  pain,  saying  that  something  had 
bitten  him  in  one  of  his  feet.  A  laborer,  one  Tom- 
maso,  ran  up  at  the  moment  and  perceived  in  the 
grass,  near  where  the  boy  was  standing,  an  enormous 
spider,  which  he  at  once  recognized  as  a  tarantula. 
He  managed  to  catch  the  creature  in  a  large  leaf,  from 
which  he  was  afterwards  transferred  to  a  wide-mouthed 
bottle,  where  he  lived  without  any  food  for  a  month 
or  more.  The  creature  was  covered  with  short  hairs, 
and  had  a  pair  of  nipper-like  jaws,  with  which  ho 
could  inflict  an  ugly  wound.  His  body  measured 
about  an  inch  in  length,  and  from  the  extremity  of 
one  of  the  longest  limbs  to  the  other  was  between  two 
and  three  inches.  Such  was  the  account  given  by  the 
physician  to  whom  the  peasant  carried  the  great 
spider. 

"  The  boy  who  had  been  bitten  continued  screaming 
violently  while  his  stocking  was  being  removed  and 
the  foot  examined.  The  place  of  the  bite  was  easily 
found  and  the  two  marks  of  the  claw-like  jaws  already 
showed  the  effects  of  the  poison,  a  small  livid  circle 
extending  around  them,  with  some  puffy  swelling. 
The  distinguished  Dr.  Amadei  was  immediately  sent 
for,  and  applied  cups  over  the  wounds  in  the  hope  of 
drawing  forth  the  poison.  In  vain  all  his  skill  and 
efforts  !  Soon,  ataxic  (irregular)  nervous  symptoms 
declared  themselves,  and  it  became  plain  that  the  sys 
tem  had  been  infected  by  the  poison. 

"  The  symptoms  were  very  much  like  those  of  ma« 


180  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

lignant  fever,  such  as  distress  about  the  region  of  the 
heart,  difficulty  of  breathing,  collapse  of  all  the  vital 
powers,  threatening  immediate  death.  From  these 
first  symptoms  the  child  rallied,  but  his  entire  organ 
ism  had  been  profoundly  affected  by  the  venom  circu 
lating  through  it.  His  constitution  has  never  thrown 
off  the  malady  resulting  from  this  toxic  (poisonous) 
agent.  The  phenomena  which  have  been  observed  in 
this  young  patient  correspond  so  nearly  with  those 
enumerated  in  the  elaborate  essay  of  the  celebrated 
Baglivi  that  one  might  think  they  had  been  tran 
scribed  from  his  pages. 

"  He  is  very  fond  of  solitude,  —  of  wandering  about 
in  churchyards  and  other  lonely  places.  He  was  once 
found  hiding  in  an  empty  tomb,  which  had  been  left 
open.  His  aversion  to  certain  colors  is  remarkable. 
Generally  speaking,  he  prefers  bright  tints  to  darker 
ones,  but  his  likes  and  dislikes  are  capricious,  and 
with  regard  to  some  colors  his  antipathy  amounts  to 
positive  horror.  Some  shades  have  such  an  effect 
upon  him  that  he  cannot  remain  in  the  room  with 
them,  and  if  he  meets  any  one  whose  dress  has  any  of 
that  particular  color  he  will  turn  away  or  retreat  so 
as  to  avoid  passing  that  person.  Among  these,  purple 
and  dark  green  are  the  least  endurable.  He  cannot 
explain  the  sensations  which  these  obnoxious  colors 
produce  except  by  saying  that  it  is  like  the  deadly 
feeling  from  a  blow  on  the  epigastrium  (pit  of  the 
stomach). 

"  About  the  same  season  of  the  year  at  which  the 
tarantular  poisoning  took  place  he  is  liable  to  certain 
nervous  seizures,  not  exactly  like  fainting  or  epilepsy, 
but  reminding  the  physician  of  those  affections  :  all 
the  other  symptoms  are  aggravated  at  this  time. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  181 

"  In  other  respects  than  those  mentioned  the  boy  is 
in  good  health.  He  is  fond  of  riding,  and  has  a  pony 
on  which  he  takes  a  great  deal  of  exercise,  which  seems 
to  do  him  more  good  than  any  other  remedy. 

"  The  influence  of  music,  to  which  so  much  has  been 
attributed  by  popular  belief  and  even  by  the  distin 
guished  Professor  to  whom  we  shall  again  refer,  has 
not  as  yet  furnished  any  satisfactory  results.  If  the 
graver  symptoms  recur  while  the  patient  is  under  our 
observation,  we  propose  to  make  use  of  an  agency 
discredited  by  modern  skepticism,  but  deserving  of  a 
fair  trial  as  an  exceptional  remedy  for  an  exceptional 
disease. 

"  The  following  extracts  from  the  work  of  the  cele 
brated  Italian  physician  of  the  last  century  are  given 
by  the  writer  of  the  paper  in  the  Giornale  in  the 
original  Latin,  with  a  translation  into  Italian,  sub 
joined.  Here  are  the  extracts,  or  rather  here  is  a 
selection  from  them,  with  a  translation  of  them  into 
English. 

"  After  mentioning  the  singular  aversion  to  certain 
colors  shown  by  the  subject  of  Tarantism,  Baglivi 
writes  as  follows :  — 

" '  Et  si  astantes  incedant  vestibus  eo  colore  diffusis, 
qui  Tarantatis  ingratus  eat,  necesse  est  ut  ob  illorum 
aspectu  recedant ;  nam  ad  intuitum  molesti  coloris 
angore  cordis,  et  symptomatum  recrudescantia  statim 
corripiuntur.'  (G.  Baglivi,  Op.  Omnia,  page  614. 
Lugduni,  1745.) 

"  That  is,  '  if  the  persons  about  the  patient  wear 
dresses  of  the  color  which  is  offensive  to  him,  he  must 
get  away  from  the  sight  of  them  *  for  on  seeing  the 
obnoxious  color  he  is  at  once  seized  with  distress  in 


182  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

the  region  of  the  heart,  and  a  renewal  of  his  symp 
toms.' 

"  As  to  the  recurrence  of  the  malady,  Baglivi 
says : — 

" '  Dum  color  soils  ardentius  exurere  incipit,  quod 
contingit  circa  initia  Julii  et  Augusti,  Tarantati  lente 
venientem  recrudescentlam  veneni  percipiunt.'  (Ibid., 
page  619.) 

"  Which  I  render,  '  When  the  heat  of  the  sun  be 
gins  to  burn  more  fiercely,  which  happens  about  the 
beginning  of  July  and  August,  the  subjects  of  Taran- 
tism  perceive  the  gradually  approaching  recrudescence 
(returning  symptoms)  of  the  poisoning.'  Among  the 
remedies  most  valued  by  this  illustrious  physician  is 
that  mentioned  in  the  following  sentence :  — 

" '  Laudo  magnopere  equitationes  in  aere  rusti- 
cano  facias  singulis  diebus,  hord  potissimum  matu- 
tina,  quibus  equitationibus  morbos  chronicos  pene  in- 
curabiles  protinus  eliminavi.' 

"  Or  in  translation,  — 

" '  I  commend  especially  riding  on  horseback  in 
country  air,  every  day,  by  preference  in  the  morning 
hours,  by  the  aid  of  which  horseback  riding  I  have 
driven  off  chronic  diseases  which  were  almost  incura 
ble.'  " 

Miss  Vincent  read  this  paper  aloud  to  Dr.  Butts, 
and  handed  it  to  him  to  examine  and  consider.  He 
listened  with  a  grave  countenance  and  devout  atten 
tion. 

As  she  finished  reading  her  account,  she  exclaimed 
in  the  passionate  tones  of  the  deepest  conviction, — 

"  There,  doctor  !  Have  n't  I  found  the  true  story 
of  this  strange  visitor  ?  Have  n't  I  solved  the  riddle 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  183 

of  the  Sphinx  ?  Who  can  this  man  be  but  the  boy  of 
that  story  ?  Look  at  the  date  of  the  journal  when  he 
was  eleven  years  old:  it  would  make  him  twenty-five 
now,  and  that  is  just  about  the  age  the  people  here 
think  he  must  be  of.  What  could  account  so  entirely 
for  his  ways  and  actions  as  that  strange  poisoning 
which  produces  the  state  they  call  Tarantism  ?  I  am 
just  as  sure  it  must  be  that  as  I  am  that  I  am  alive. 
Oh,  doctor,  doctor,  I  must  be  right,  —  this  Signorino 
M  .  .  .  Ch  .  .  .  was  the  boy  Maurice  Kirkwood,  and 
the  story  accounts  for  everything,  —  his  solitary  hab 
its,  his  dread  of  people,  —  it  must  be  because  they 
wear  the  colors  he  can't  bear.  His  morning  rides  on 
horseback,  his  coming  here  just  as  the  season  was  ap 
proaching  which  would  aggravate  all  his  symptoms,  — 
does  n't  all  this  prove  that  I  must  be  right  in  my  con 
jecture,  —  no,  my  conviction  ?  " 

The  doctor  knew  too  much  to  interrupt  the  young 
enthusiast,  and  so  he  let  her  run  on  until  she  ran 
down.  He  was  more  used  to  the  rules  of  evidence 
than  she  was,  and  could  not  accept  her  positive  con 
clusion  so  readily  as  she  would  have  liked  to  have  him. 
He  knew  that  beginners  are  very  apt  to  make  what 
they  think  are  discoveries.  But  he  had  been  an  an 
gler  and  knew  the  meaning  of  a  yielding  rod  and  an 
easy-running  reel.  He  said  quietly,  — 

"  You  are  a  most  sagacious  young  lady,  and  a  very 
pretty  prima  facie  case  it  is  that  you  make  out.  I 
can  see  no  proof  that  Mr.  Kirkwood  is  not  the  same 
person  as  the  M  .  .  .  Ch  ...  of  the  medical  jour 
nal,  —  that  is,  if  I  accept  your  explanation  of  the  dif 
ference  in  the  initials  of  these  two  names.  Even  if 
there  were  a  difference,  that  would  not  disprove  their 
identity,  for  the  initials  of  patients  whose  cases  are  re- 


184  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

ported  by  their  physicians  are  often  altered  for  the 
purpose  of  concealment.  I  do  not  know,  however, 
that  Mr.  Kirkwood  has  shown  any  special  aversion  to 
any  particular  color.  It  might  be  interesting  to  in 
quire  whether  it  is  so,  but  it  is  a  delicate  matter.  I 
don't  exactly  see  whose  business  it  is  to  investigate 
Mr.  Maurice  Kirkwood's  idiosyncrasies  and  constitu 
tional  history.  If  he  should  have  occasion  to  send  for 
me  at  any  time,  he  might  tell  me  all  about  himself,  — 
in  confidence,  you  know.  These  old  accounts  from 
Baglivi  are  curious  and  interesting,  but  I  am  cautious 
about  receiving  any  stories  a  hundred  years  old,  if 
they  involve  an  improbability,  as  his  stories  about  the 
cure  of  the  tarantula  bite  by  music  certainly  do.  I 
am  disposed  to  wait  for  future  developments,  bearing 
in  mind,  of  course,  the  very  singular  case  you  have 
unearthed.  It  would  n't  be  very  strange  if  our  young 
gentleman  had  to  send  for  me  before  the  season  is 
over.  He  is  out  a  good  deal  before  the  dew  is  off  the 
grass,  which  is  rather  risky  in  this  neighborhood  as 
autumn  comes  on.  I  am  somewhat  curious,  I  confess, 
about  the  young  man,  but  I  do  not  meddle  where  I 
am  not  asked  for  or  wanted,  and  I  have  found  that 
eggs  hatch  just  as  well  if  you  let  them  alone  in  the 
nest  as  if  you  take  them  out  and  shake  them  every 
day.  This  is  a  wonderfully  interesting  supposition  of 
yours,  and  may  prove  to  be  strictly  in  accordance  with 
the  facts.  But  I  do  not  think  we  have  all  the  facts 
in  this  young  man's  case.  If  it  were  proved  that  he 
had  an  aversion  to  any  color,  it  would  greatly  strength 
en  your  case.  His  '  antipatia,'  as  his  man  called  it, 
must  be  one  which  covers  a  wide  ground,  to  account 
for  his  self-isolation,  —  and  the  color  hypothesis  seems 
as  plausible  as  any.  But,  my  dear  Miss  Vincent,  1 


A   MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  185 

think  you  had  better  leave  your  singular  and  striking 
hypothesis  in  my  keeping  for  a  while,  rather  than  let 
it  get  abroad  in  a  community  like  this,  where  so  many 
tongues  are  in  active  exercise.  I  will  carefully  study 
this  paper,  if  you  will  leave  it  with  me,  and  we  will 
talk  the  whole  matter  over.  It  is  a  fair  subject  for 
speculation,  only  we  must  keep  quiet  about  it." 

This  long  speech  gave  Lurida's  perfervid  brain 
time  to  cool  off  a  little.  She  left  the  paper  with  the 
doctor,  telling  him  she  would  come  for  it  the  next  day, 
and  went  off  to  tell  the  result  of  this  visit  to  her 
bosom  friend,  Miss  Euthymia  Tower. 


XV. 

DR.    BUTTS    CALLS   ON   EUTHYMIA. 

THE  doctor  was  troubled  in  thinking  over  his  inter 
view  with  the  young  lady.  She  was  fully  possessed 
with  the  idea  that  she  had  discovered  the  secret  which 
had  defied  the  most  sagacious  heads  of  the  village.  It 
was  of  no  use  to  oppose  her  while  her  mind  was  in  an 
excited  state.  But  he  felt  it  his  duty  to  guard  her 
against  any  possible  results  of  indiscretion  into  which 
her  eagerness  and  her  theory  of  the  equality,  almost 
the  identity,  of  the  sexes  might  betray  her.  Too  much 
of  the  woman  in  a  daughter  of  our  race  leads  her  to 
forget  danger.  Too  little  of  the  woman  prompts  her 
to  defy  it.  Fortunately  for  this  last  class  of  women, 
they  are  not  quite  so  likely  to  be  perilously  seductive 
as  their  more  emphatically  feminine  sisters. 

Dr.  Butts  had  known  Lurida  and  her  friend  from 
the  days  of  their  infancy.  He  had  watched  the  de 
velopment  of  Lurida's  intelligence  from  its  precocious 
nursery-life  to  the  full  vigor  of  its  trained  faculties. 
He  had  looked  with  admiration  on  the  childish  beauty 
of  Euthymia,  and  had  seen  her  grow  up  to  womanhood, 
every  year  making  her  more  attractive.  He  knew 
that  if  anything  was  to  be  done  with  his  self-willed 
young  scholar  and  friend,  it  would  be  more  easily  ef 
fected  through  the  medium  of  Euthymia  than  by  di 
rect  advice  to  the  young  lady  herself.  So  the  thought 
ful  doctor  made  up  his  mind  to  have  a  good  talk  with 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  187 

Euthymia,  and  put  her  on  her  guard,  if  Lurida  showed 
any  tendency  to  forget  the  conventionalities  in  her  ea 
ger  pursuit  of  knowledge. 

For  the  doctor's  horse  and  chaise  to  stop  at  the 
door  of  Miss  Euthymia  Tower's  parental  home  was  an 
event  strange  enough  to  set  all  the  tongues  in  the  vil 
lage  going.  This  was  one  of  those  families  where  ill 
ness  was  hardly  looked  for  among  the  possibilities  of 
life.  There  were  other  families  where  a  call  from  the 
doctor  was  hardly  more  thought  of  than  a  call  from 
the  baker.  But  here  he  was  a  stranger,  at  least  on 
his  professional  rounds,  and  when  he  asked  for  Miss 
Euthymia  the  servant,  who  knew  his  face  well,  stared 
as  if  he  had  held  in  his  hand  a  warrant  for  her  ap 
prehension. 

Euthymia  did  not  keep  the  doctor  waiting  very  long 
while  she  made  ready  to  meet  him.  One  look  at  her 
glass  to  make  sure  that  a  lock  had  not  run  astray,  or 
a  ribbon  got  out  of  place,  and  her  toilet  for  a  morning 
call  was  finished.  Perhaps  if  Mr.  Maurice  Kirkwood 
had  been  announced,  she  might  have  taken  a  second 
look,  but  with  the  good  middle-aged,  married  doctor 
one  was  enough  for  a  young  lady  who  had  the  gift  of 
making  all  the  dresses  she  wore  look  well,  and  had  no 
occasion  to  treat  her  chamber  like  the  laboratory  where 
an  actress  compounds  herself. 

Euthymia  welcomed  the  doctor  very  heartily.  She 
could  not  help  suspecting  his  errand,  and  she  was 
very  glad  to  have  a  chance  to  talk  over  her  friend's 
schemes  and  fancies  with  him. 

The  doctor  began  without  any  roundabout  prelude. 

"  I  want  to  confer  with  you  about  our  friend  Lu 
rida.  Does  she  tell  you  all  her  plans  and  projects?  " 

"  Why,  as  to  that,  doctor,  I  can  hardly  say,  posi- 


188  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

tively,  but  I  do  not  believe  she  keeps  back  anything 
of  importance  from  me.  I  know  what  she  has  been 
busy  with  lately,  and  the  queer  idea  she  has  got  into 
her  head.  What  do  you  think  of  the  Tarantula  busi 
ness  ?  She  has  shown  you  the  paper  she  has  written, 
I  suppose." 

"  Indeed  she  has.  It  is  a  very  curious  case  she  has 
got  hold  of,  and  I  do  not  wonder  at  all  that  she  should 
have  felt  convinced  that  she  had  come  at  the  true  so 
lution  of  the  village  riddle.  It  may  be  that  this  young 
man  is  the  same  person  as  the  boy  mentioned  in  the 
Italian  medical  journal.  But  it  is  very  far  from  clear 
that  he  is  so.  You  know  all  her  reasons,  of  course,  as 
you  have  read  the  story.  The  times  seem  to  agree 
well  enough.  It  is  easy  to  conceive  that  Ch  might  be 
substituted  for  K  in  the  report.  The  singular  solitary 
habits  of  this  young  man  entirely  coincide  with  the 
story.  If  we  could  only  find  out  whether  he  has  any 
of  those  feelings  with  reference  to  certain  colors,  we 
might  guess  with  more  chance  of  guessing  right  than 
we  have  at  present.  But  I  don't  see  exactly  how  we 
are  going  to  submit  him  to  examination  on  this  point. 
If  he  were  only  a  chemical  compound,  we  could  ana 
lyze  him.  If  he  were  only  a  bird  or  a  quadruped,  we 
could  find  out  his  likes  and  dislikes.  But  being,  as 
he  is,  a  young  man,  with  ways  of  his  own,  and  a  will 
of  his  own,  which  he  may  not  choose  to  have  interfered 
with,  the  problem  becomes  more  complicated.  I  hear 
that  a  newspaper  correspondent  has  visited  him  so  as 
to  make  a  report  to  his  paper,  —  do  you  know  what 
he  found  out  ?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do,  very  well.  My  brother  has  heard 
his  own  story,  which  was  this :  He  found  out  he  had 
got  hold  of  the  wrong  person  to  interview.  The  young 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  189 

gentleman,  he  says,  interviewed  him,  so  that  he  did 
not  learn  much  about  the  Sphinx.  But  the  newspaper 
man  told  Willy  about  the  Sphinx's  library  and  a  cabi 
net  of  coins  he  had ;  and  said  he  should  make  an  arti 
cle  out  of  him,  anyhow.  I  wish  the  man  would  take 
himself  off.  I  am  afraid  Lurida's  love  of  knowledge 
will  get  her  into  trouble  !  " 

"  Which  of  the  men  do  you  wish  would  take  him 
self  off?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  newspaper  man." 

She  blushed  a  little  as  she  said,  "  I  can't  help  feel 
ing  a  strange  sort  of  interest  about  the  other,  Mr. 
Kirkwood.  Do  you  know  that  I  met  him  this  morn 
ing,  and  had  a  good  look  at  him,  full  in  the  face  ?  " 

"  Well,  to  be  sure  !  That  was  an  interesting  ex 
perience.  And  how  did  you  like  his  looks  ?  " 

"  I  thought  his  face  a  very  remarkable  one.  But 
he  looked  very  pale  as  he  passed  me,  and  I  noticed 
that  he  put  his  hand  to  his  left  side  as  if  he  had  a 
twinge  of  pain,  or  something  of  that  sort,  —  spasm  or 
neuralgia,  —  I  don't  know  what.  I  wondered  whether 
be  had  what  you  call  angina  pectoris.  It  was  the 
same  kind  of  look  and  movement,  I  remember,  as  you 
must,  too,  in  my  uncle  who  died  with  that  complaint." 

The  doctor  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  he  asked, 
"  Were  you  dressed  as  you  are  now  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  was,  except  that  I  had  a  thin  mantle  over 
my  shoulders.  I  was  out  early,  and  I  have  always  re 
membered  your  caution." 

"  What  color  was  your  mantle  ?  " 

"  It  was  black.     I  have  been  over  all  this  with  Lu- 

rida.     A  black  mantle  on  a  white  dress.     A  straw 

"hat  with  an  old  faded  ribbon.     There  can't  bo  much 

in  those  colors  to  trouble  him,  I  should  think,  for  his 


190'  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

man  wears  a  black  coat  and  white  linen,  —  more  or 
less  white,  as  you  must  have  noticed,  and  he  must 
have  seen  ribbons  of  all  colors  often  enough.  But 
Lurida  believes  it  was  the  ribbon,  or  something  in  the 
combination  of  colors.  Her  head  is  full  of  Tarantu 
las  and  Tarantism.  I  fear  that  she  will  never  be  easy 
until  the  question  is  settled  by  actual  trial.  And  will 
you  believe  it  ?  the  girl  is  determined  in  some  way  to 
test  her  supposition ! " 

"  Believe  it,  Euthymia  !  I  can  believe  almost  any 
thing  of  Lurida.  She  is  the  most  irrepressible  crea 
ture  I  ever  knew.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  what  a 
complete  possession  any  ruling  idea  takes  of  her  whole 
nature.  I  have  had  some  fears  lest  her  zeal  might 
run  away  with  her  discretion.  It  is  a  great  deal  easier 
to  get  into  a  false  position  than  to  get  out  of  it." 

"I  know  it  well  enough.  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
what  you  think  about  the  whole  business.  I  don't 
like  the  look  of  it  at  all,  and  yet  I  can  do  nothing 
with  the  girl  except  let  her  follow  her  fancy,  until  I 
can  show  her  plainly  that  she  will  get  herself  into 
trouble  in  some  way  or  other.  But  she  is  ingenious, 
—  full  of  all  sorts  of  devices,  innocent  enough  in  them 
selves,  but  liable  to  be  misconstrued.  You  remember 
how  she  won  us  the  boat-race  ?  " 

"  To  be  sure  I  do.  It  was  rather  sharp  practice, 
but  she  felt  she  was  paying  off  an  old  score.  The 
classical  story  of  Atalanta,  told,  like  that  of  Eve,  as 
illustrating  the  weakness  of  woman,  provoked  her  to 
make  trial  of  the  powers  of  resistance  in  the  other  sex. 
But  it  was  audacious.  I  hope  her  audacity  will  not 
go  too  far.  You  must  watch  her.  Keep  an  eye  on 
her  correspondence" 

The  doctor  had  great  confidence  in  the  good  sense 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  191 

of  Lurida's  friend.  He  felt  sure  that  she  would  not 
let  Lurida  commit  herself  by  writing  foolish  letters  to 
the  subject  of  her  speculations,  or  similar  indiscreet 
performances.  The  boldness  of  young  girls,  who  think 
no  evil,  in  opening  correspondence  with  idealized  per 
sonages  is  something  quite  astonishing  to  those  who 
have  had  an  opportunity  of  knowing  the  facts.  Lu 
rida  had  passed  the  most  dangerous  age,  but  her  the 
ory  of  the  equality  of  the  sexes  made  her  indifferent 
to  the  by-laws  of  social  usage.  She  required  watching, 
and  her  two  guardians  were  ready  to  check  her,  in 
case  of  need. 


XVI. 

MISS   VINCENT  WHITES  A  LETTER. 

EUTHYMIA  noticed  that  her  friend  had  been  very 
much  preoccupied  for  two  or  three  days.  She  found 
her  more  than  once  busy  at  her  desk,  with  a  manu 
script  before  her,  which  she  turned  over  and  placed 
inside  the  desk,  as  Euthymia  entered. 

This  desire  of  concealment  was  not  what  either  of 
the  friends  expected  to  see  in  the  other.  It  showed 
that  some  project  was  under  way,  which,  at  least  in  its 
present  stage,  the  Machiavellian  young  lady  did  not 
wish  to  disclose.  It  had  cost  her  a  good  deal  of 
thought  and  care,  apparently,  for  her  waste-basket  was 
full  of  scraps  of  paper,  which  looked  as  if  they  were 
the  remains  of  a  manuscript  like  that  at  which  she 
was  at  work.  "  Copying  and  recopying,  probably," 
thought  Euthymia,  but  she  was  willing  to  wait  to 
learn  what  Lurida  was  busy  about,  though  she  had  a 
suspicion  that  it  was  something  in  which  she  might 
feel  called  upon  to  interest  herself. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  think?  "  said  Euthymia  to 
the  doctor,  meeting  him  as  he  left  his  door.  "  I  be 
lieve  Lurida  is  writing  to  this  man,  and  I  don't  like 
the  thought  of  her  doing  such  a  thing.  Of  course  she 
is  not  like  other  girls  in  many  respects,  but  other  peo 
ple  will  judge  her  by  the  common  rules  of  life." 

"  I  am  glad  that  you  spoke  of  it,"  answered  the  doc 
tor  ;  "  she  would  write  to  him  just  as  quickly  as  to  any 
woman  of  his  age.  Besides,  under  the  cover  of  her 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  193 

office,  she  has  got  into  the  way  of  writing  to  anybody. 
I  think  she  has  already  written  to  Mr.  Kirkwood,  ask 
ing  him  to  contribute  a  paper  for  the  Society.  She 
can  find  a  pretext  easily  enough  if  she  has  made  up 
her  mind  to  write.  In  fact,  I  doubt  if  she  would 
trouble  herself  for  any  pretext  at  all  if  she  decided  to 
write.  Watch  her  well.  Don't  let  any  letter  go  with 
out  seeing  it,  if  you  can  help  it." 

Young  women  are  much  given  to  writing  letters  to 
persons  whom  they  only  know  indirectly,  for  the  most 
part  through  their  books,  and  especially  to  romancers 
and  poets.  Nothing  can  be  more  innocent  and  simple- 
hearted  than  most  of  these  letters.  They  are  the  spon 
taneous  outflow  of  young  hearts  easily  excited  to  grat 
itude  for  the  pleasure  which  some  story  or  poem  has 
given  them,  and  recognizing  their  own  thoughts,  their 
own  feelings,  in  those  expressed  by  the  author,  as  if 
on  purpose  for  them  to  read.  Undoubtedly  they  give 
great  relief  to  solitary  young  persons,  who  must  have 
some  ideal  reflection  of  themselves,  and  know  not 
where  to  look  since  Protestantism  has  taken  away  the 
crucifix  and  the  Madonna.  The  recipient  of  these  let 
ters  sometimes  wonders,  after  reading  through  one  of 
them,  how  it  is  that  his  young  correspondent  has  man 
aged  to  fill  so  much  space  with  her  simple  message  of 
admiration  or  of  sympathy. 

Lurida  did  not  belong  to  this  particular  class  of 
correspondents,  but  she  could  not  resist  the  law  of  her 
sex,  whose  thoughts  naturally  surround  themselves 
with  superabundant  drapery  of  language,  as  their  per 
sons  float  in  a  wide  superfluity  of  woven  tissues.  Was 
she  indeed  writing  to  this  unknown  gentleman?  Eu- 
thymia  questioned  her  point-blank. 

"  Are  you  going  to  open  a  correspondence  with  Mr. 

13 


194  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Maurice  Kirkwood,  Lurida?  You  seem  to  be  so  busy 
writing,  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Or  are  you  going 
to  write  a  novel,  or  a  paper  for  the  Society,  —  do  tell 
me  what  you  are  so  much  taken  up  with." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  Euthymia,  if  you  will  promise  not 
to  find  fault  with  me  for  carrying  out  my  plan  as  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  do.  You  may  read  this  let 
ter  before  I  seal  it,  and  if  you  find  anything  in  it  you 
don't  like  you  can  suggest  any  change  that  you  think 
will  improve  it.  I  hope  you  will  see  that  it  explains 
itself.  I  don't  believe  that  you  will  find  anything  to 
frighten  you  in  it." 

This  is  the  letter,  as  submitted  to  Miss  Tower  by 
her  friend.  The  bold  handwriting  made  it  look  like  a 
man's  letter,  and  gave  it  consequently  a  less  danger 
ous  expression  than  that  which  belongs  to  the  tinted 
and  often  fragrant  sheet  with  its  delicate  thready  char 
acters,  which  slant  across  the  page  like  an  April 
shower  with  a  south  wind  chasing  it. 

ARROWHEAD  VILLAGE,  August  — ,  18 — . 

MY  DEAR  SIR,  —  You  will  doubtless  be  surprised  at 
the  sight  of  a  letter  like  this  from  one  whom  you  only 
know  as  the  Secretary  of  the  Pansophian  Society. 
There  is  a  very  common  feeling  that  it  is  unbecoming 
in  one  of  my  sex  to  address  one  of  your  own  with 
whom  she  is  unacquainted,  unless  she  has  some  special 
claim  upon  his  attention.  I  am  by  no  means  disposed 
to  concede  to  the  vulgar  prejudice  on  this  point.  If 
one  human  being  has  anything  to  communicate  to  an 
other,  —  anything  which  deserves  being  communi 
cated,  —  I  see  no  occasion  for  bringing  in  the  question 
of  sex.  I  do  not  think  the  homo  sum  of  Terence  can 
be  claimed  for  the  male  sex  as  its  private  property  on 
general  any  more  than  on  grammatical  grounds. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  195 

I  have  sometimes  thought  of  devoting  myself  to  the 
noble  art  of  healing.  If  I  did  so,  it  would  be  with  the 
fixed  purpose  of  giving  my  whole  powers  to  the  service 
of  humanity.  And  if  I  should  carry  out  that  idea, 
should  I  refuse  my  care  and  skill  to  a  suffering  fellow- 
mortal  because  that  mortal  happened  to  be  a  brother, 
and  not  a  sister  ?  My  whole  nature  protests  against 
such  one-sided  humanity !  No !  I  am  blind  to  all 
distinctions  when  my  eyes  are  opened  to  any  form  of 
suffering,  to  any  spectacle  of  want. 

You  may  ask  me  why  I  address  you,  whom  I  know 
little  or  nothing  of,  and  to  whom  such  an  advance  may 
seem  presumptuous  and  intrusive.  It  is  because  I  was 
deeply  impressed  by  the  paper  which  I  attributed  to 
you,  —  that  on  Ocean,  River,  and  Lake,  which  was 
read  at  one  of  our  meetings.  I  say  that  I  was  deeply 
impressed,  but  I  do  not  mean  this  as  a  compliment  to 
that  paper.  I  am  not  bandying  compliments  now,  but 
thinking  of  better  things  than  praises  or  phrases.  I 
was  interested  in  the  paper,  partly  because  I  recog 
nized  some  of  the  feelings  expressed  in  it  as  my  own, 
—  partly  because  there  was  an  undertone  of  sadness  in 
all  the  voices  of  nature  as  you  echoed  them  which  made 
me  sad  to  hear,  and  which  I  could  not  help  longing  to 
cheer  and  enliven.  I  said  to  myself,  I  should  like  to 
hold  communion  with  the  writer  of  that  paper.  I  have 
had  my  lonely  hours  and  days,  as  he  has  had.  I  have 
had  some  of  his  experiences  in  my  intercourse  with  na 
ture.  And  oh !  if  I  could  draw  him  into  those  better 
human  relations  which  await  us  all,  if  we  come  with 
the  right  dispositions,  I  should  blush  if  I  stopped  to 
inquire  whether  I  violated  any  conventional  rule  or 
not. 

You  will  understand  me,  I  feel  sure.     You  believe, 


196  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

do  you  not  ?  in  the  insignificance  of  the  barrier  which 
divides  the  sisterhood  from  the  brotherhood  of  man 
kind.  You  believe,  do  you  not  ?  that  they  should  be 
educated  side  by  side,  that  they  should  share  the  same 
pursuits,  due  regard  being  had  to  the  fitness  of  the 
particular  individual  for  hard  or  light  work,  as  it  must 
always  be,  whether  we  are  dealing  with  the  "  stronger  " 
or  the  "  weaker  "  sex.  I  mark  these  words  because, 
notwithstanding  their  common  use,  they  involve  so 
much  that  is  not  true.  Stronger !  Yes,  to  lift  a  bar 
rel  of  flour,  or  a  barrel  of  cider,  —  though  there  have 
been  women  who  could  do  that,  and  though  when  John 
Wesley  was  mobbed  in  Staffordshire  a  woman  knocked 
down  three  or  four  men,  one  after  another,  until  she 
was  at  last  overpowered  and  nearly  murdered.  Talk 
about  the  weaker  sex !  Go  and  see  Miss  Euthymia 
Tower  at  the  gymnasium !  But  no  matter  about  which 
sex  has  the  strongest  muscles.  Which  has  most  to 
suffer,  and  which  has  most  endurance  and  vitality? 
We  go  through  many  ordeals  which  you  are  spared, 
but  we  outlast  you  in  mind  and  body.  I  have  been 
led  away  into  one  of  my  accustomed  trains  of  thought, 
but  not  so  far  away  from  it  as  you  might  at  first  sup 
pose. 

My  brother !  Are  you  not  ready  to  recognize  in  me 
a  friend,  an  equal,  a  sister,  who  can  speak  to  you  as  if 
she  had  been  reared  under  the  same  roof  ?  And  is  not 
the  sky  that  covers  us  one  roof,  which  makes  us  all 
one  family  ?  You  are  lonely,  you  must  be  longing  for 
some  human  fellowship.  Take  me  into  your  confi 
dence.  What  is  there  that  you  can  tell  me  to  which  I 
cannot  respond  with  sympathy?  What  saddest  note 
in  your  spiritual  dirges  which  will  not  find  its  chord  in 
mine? 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  197 

I  long  to  know  what  influence  has  cast  its  shadow 
over  your  existence.  I  myself  have  known  what  it  is 
to  carry  a  brain  that  never  rests  in  a  body  that  is  al 
ways  tired.  I  have  defied  its  infirmities,  and  forced  it 
to  do  my  bidding.  You  have  no  such  hindrance,  if  we 
may  judge  by  your  aspect  and  habits.  You  deal  with 
horses  like  a  Homeric  hero.  No  wild  Indian  could 
handle  his  bark  canoe  more  dexterously  or  more  vigor 
ously  than  we  have  seen  you  handling  yours.  There 
must  be  some  reason  for  your  seclusion  which  curiosity 
has  not  reached,  and  into  which  it  is  not  the  province 
of  curiosity  to  inquire.  But  in  the  irresistible  desire 
which  I  have  to  bring  you  into  kindly  relations  with 
those  around  you,  I  must  run  the  risk  of  giving  of 
fence  that  I  may  know  in  what  direction  to  look  for 
those  restorative  influences  which  the  sympathy  of  a 
friend  and  sister  can  offer  to  a  brother  in  need  of 
some  kindly  impulse  to  change  the  course  of  a  life 
which  is  not,  which  cannot  be,  in  accordance  with  his 
true  nature. 

I  have  thought  that  there  may  be  something  in  the 
conditions  with  which  you  are  here  surrounded  which 
is  repugnant  to  your  feelings,  —  something  which  can 
be  avoided  only  by  keeping  yourself  apart  from  the 
people  whose  acquaintance  yoii  would  naturally  have 
formed.  There  can  hardly  be  anything  in  the  place 
itself,  or  you  would  not  have  voluntarily  sought  it  as  a 
residence,  even  for  a  single  season.  There  might  be 
individuals  here  whom  you  would  not  care  to  meet,  — 
there  must  be  such,  but  you  cannot  have  a  personal 
aversion  to  everybody.  I  have  heard  of  cases  in 
which  certain  sights  and  sounds,  which  have  no  par 
ticular  significance  for  most  persons,  produced  feelings 
of  distress  or  aversion  that  made  them  unbearable  to 


198  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

the  subjects  of  the  constitutional  dislike.  It  has  oc 
curred  to  me  that  possibly  you  might  have  some  such 
natural  aversion  to  the  sounds  of  the  street,  or  such 
as  are  heard  in  most  houses,  especially  where  a  piano 
is  kept,  as  it  is  in  fact  in  almost  all  of  those  in  the 
village.  Or  it  might  be,  I  imagined,  that  some  color 
in  the  dresses  of  women  or  the  furniture  of  our  rooms 
affected  you  unpleasantly.  I  know  that  instances  of 
such  antipathy  have  been  recorded,  and  they  would 
account  for  the  seclusion  of  those  who  are  subject 
to  it. 

If  there  is  any  removable  condition  which  interferes 
with  your  free  entrance  into  and  enjoyment  of  the 
social  life  around  you,  tell  me,  I  beg  of  you,  tell  me 
what  it  is,  and  it  shall  be  eliminated.  Think  it  not 
strange,  O  my  brother,  that  I  thus  venture  to  intro 
duce  myself  into  the  hidden  chambers  of  your  life.  I 
will  never  suffer  myself  to  be  frightened  from  the  car 
rying  out  of  any  thought  which  promises  to  be  of  use 
to  a  fellow-mortal  by  a  fear  lest  it  should  be  considered 
"  unfeminine."  I  can  bear  to  be  considered  unfemi- 
nine,  but  I  cannot  endure  to  think  of  myself  as  in 
human.  Can  I  help  you,  my  brother  ? 

Believe  me  your  most  sincere  well-wisher, 

LURIDA  VINCENT. 

Euthymia  had  carried  off  this  letter  and  read  it  by 
herself.  As  she  finished  it,  her  feelings  found  expres 
sion  in  an  old  phrase  of  her  grandmother's,  which 
came  up  of  itself,  as  such  survivals  of  early  days  are 
apt  to  do,  on  great  occasions. 

"Well,  I  never!" 

Then  she  loosened  some  button  or  string  that  was 
too  tight,  and  went  to  the  window  for  a  breath  of  out- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  199 

door  air.  Then  she  began  at  the  beginning  and  read 
the  whole  letter  all  over  again. 

What  should  she  do  about  it  ?  She  could  not  let 
this  young  girl  send  a  letter  like  that  to  a  stranger  of 
whose  character  little  was  known  except  by  inference, 
—  to  a  young  man,  who  would  consider  it  a  most  ex 
traordinary  advance  on  the  part  of  the  sender.  She 
would  have  liked  to  tear  it  into  a  thousand  pieces, 
but  she  had  no  right  to  treat  it  in  that  way.  Lurida 
meant  to  send  it  the  next  morning,  and  in  the  mean 
time  Euthymia  had  the  night  to  think  over  what  she 
should  do  about  it. 

There  is  nothing  like  the  pillow  for  an  oracle. 
There  is  no  voice  like  that  which  breaks  the  silence  of 
the  stagnant  hours  of  the  night  with  its  sudden  sug 
gestions  and  luminous  counsels.  When  Euthymia 
awoke  in  the  morning,  her  course  of  action  was  as 
clear  before  her  as  if  it  had  been  dictated  by  her 
guardian  angel.  She  went  straight  over  to  the  home 
of  Lurida,  who  was  just  dressed  for  breakfast. 

She  was  naturally  a  little  surprised  at  this  early 
visit.  She  was  struck  with  the  excited  look  of  Euthy 
mia,  being  herself  quite  calm,  and  contemplating  her 
project  with  entire  complacency. 

Euthymia  began,  in  tones  that  expressed  deep  anx 
iety. 

"  I  have  read  your  letter,  my  dear,  and  admired  its 
spirit  and  force.  It  is  a  fine  letter,  and  does  you  great 
credit  as  an  expression  of  the  truest  human  feeling. 
But  it  must  not  be  sent  to  Mr.  Kirkwood.  If  you 
were  sixty  years  old,  perhaps  if  you  were  fifty,  it  might 
be  admissible  to  send  it.  But  if  you  were  forty,  I 
should  question  its  propriety ;  if  you  were  thirty,  I 
should  veto  it,  and  you  are  but  a  little  more  than 


200  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

twenty.  How  do  you  know  that  this  stranger  will  not 
show  your  letter  to  anybody  or  everybody  ?  How  do 
you  know  that  he  will  not  send  it  to  one  of  the  gossip 
ing  journals  like  the  '  Household  Inquisitor '  ?  But 
supposing  he  keeps  it  to  himself,  which  is  more  than 
you  have  a  right  to  expect,  what  opinion  is  he  likely 
to  form  of  a  young  lady  who  invades  his  privacy  with 
such  freedom  ?  Ten  to  one  he  will  think  curiosity  is 
at  the  bottom  of  it,  —  and,  —  come,  don't  be  angry 
at  me  for  suggesting  it,  —  may  there  not  be  a  little 
of  that  same  motive  mingled  with  the  others?  No, 
don't  interrupt  me  quite  yet;  you  do  want  to  know 
whether  your  hypothesis  is  correct.  You  are  full  of 
the  best  and  kindest  feelings  in  the  world,  but  your 
desire  for  knowledge  is  the  ferment  uuder  them  just 
now,  perhaps  more  than  you  know." 

Lurida's  pale  cheeks  flushed  and  whitened  more 
than  once  while  her  friend  was  speaking.  She  loved 
her  too  sincerely  and  respected  her  intelligence  too 
much  to  take  offence  at  her  advice,  but  she  could  not 
give  up  her  humane  and  sisterly  intentions  merely 
from  the  fear  of  some  awkward  consequences  to  her 
self.  She  had  persuaded  herself  that  she  was  playing 
the  part  of  a  Protestant  sister  of  charity,  and  that  the 
fact  of  her  not  wearing  the  costume  of  these  minister 
ing  angels  made  no  difference  in  her  relations  to  those 
who  needed  her  aid. 

"  I  cannot  see  your  objections  in  the  light  in  which 
they  appear  to  you,"  she  said  gravely.  "  It  seems 
to  me  that  I  give  up  everything  when  I  hesitate  to 
help  a  fellow-creature  because  I  am  a  woman.  I  am 
not  afraid  to  send  this  letter  and  take  all  the  conse 
quences." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  to  the  doctor's,  and  let  him 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  201 

read  it  in  our  presence?  And  will  you  agree  to  abide 
by  his  opinion,  if  it  coincides  with  mine  ?  " 

Lurida  winced  a  little  at  this  proposal.  "  I  don't 
quite  like,"  she  said,  "  showing  this  letter  to  —  to  "  — 
she  hesitated,  but  it  had  to  come  out  —  "  to  a  man,  — 
that  is,  to  another  man  than  the  one  for  whom  it  was 
intended." 

The  neuter  gender  business  had  got  a  pretty  dam 
aging  side-hit. 

"  Well,  never  mind  about  letting  him  read  the  let 
ter.  Will  you  go  over  to  his  house  with  me  at  noon, 
when  he  comes  back  after  his  morning  visits,  and  have 
a  talk  over  the  whole  matter  with  him  ?  You  know  I 
have  sometimes  had  to  say  must  to  you,  Lurida,  and 
now  I  say  you  must  go  to  the  doctor's  with  me  and 
carry  that  letter." 

There  was  no  resisting  the  potent  monosyllable  as 
the  sweet  but  firm  voice  delivered  it.  At  noon  the 
two  maidens  rang  at  the  doctor's  door.  The  servant 
said  he  had  been  at  the  house  after  his  morning  visits, 
but  found  a  hasty  summons  to  Mr.  Kirkwood,  who 
had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  and  wished  to  see  him 
at  once.  Was  the  illness  dangerous?  The  servant- 
maid  did  n't  know,  but  thought  it  was  pretty  bad,  for 
Mr.  Paul  came  in  as  white  as  a  sheet,  and  talked,  all 
sorts  of  languages  which  she  could  n't  understand,  and 
took  on  as  if  he  thought  Mr.  Kirkwood  was  going  to 
dia  right  off. 

And  so  the  hazardous  question  about  sending  the 
letter  was  disposed  of,  at  least  for  the  present. 


XVII. 

DK.    BUTTS'S   PATIENT. 

THE  physician  found  Maurice  just  regaining  his 
heat  after  a  chill  of  a  somewhat  severe  character.  He 
knew  too  well  what  this  meant,  and  the  probable  se 
ries  of  symptoms  of  which  it  was  the  prelude.  His 
patient  was  not  the  only  one  in  the  neighborhood  who 
was  attacked  in  this  way.  The  autumnal  fevers  to 
which  our  country  towns  are  subject,  in  the  place  of 
those  "agues,"  or  intermittents,  so  largely  prevalent 
in  the  South  and  West,  were  already  beginning,  and 
Maurice,  who  had  exposed  himself  in  the  early  and 
late  hours  of  the  dangerous  season,  must  be  expected 
to  go  through  the  regular  stages  of  this  always  serious 
and  not  rarely  fatal  disease. 

Paolo,  his  faithful  servant,  would  fain  have  taken 
the  sole  charge  of  his  master  during  his  illness.  But 
the  doctor  insisted  that  he  must  have  a  nurse  to  help 
him  in  his.  task,  which  was  likely  to  be  long  and  ex 
hausting. 

At  the  mention  of  the  word  "  nurse  "  Paolo  turned 
white,  and  exclaimed  in  an  agitated  and  thoroughly 
frightened  way, — 

"  No !  no  nuss !  no  woman  !  She  kill  him !  I  stay 
by  him  day  and  night,  but  don'  let  no  woman  come 
near  him,  —  if  you  do,  he  die  !  " 

The  doctor  explained  that  he  intended  to  send  a 
man  who  was  used  to  taking  care  of  sick  people,  and 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  203 

with  no  little  effort  at  last  succeeded  in  convincing 
Paolo  that,  as  he  could  not  be  awake  day  and  night 
for  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  it  was  absolutely  nec 
essary  to  call  in  some  assistance  from  without.  And 
so  Mr.  Maurice  Kirkwood  was  to  play  the  leading  part 
in  that  drama  of  nature's  composing  called  a  typhoid 
fever,  with  its  regular  bedchamber  scenery,  its  proper 
ties  of  phials  and  pill-boxes,  its  little  company  of  stock 
actors,  its  gradual  evolution  of  a  very  simple  plot,  its 
familiar  incidents,  its  emotional  alternations,  and  its 
denouement,  sometimes  tragic,  oftener  happy. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  the  sympathies  of  all  the 
good  people  of  the  village,  residents  and  strangers, 
were  actively  awakened  for  the  young  man  about  whom 
they  knew  so  little  and  conjectured  so  much.  Tokens 
of  their  kindness  came  to  him  daily :  flowers  from  the 
woods  and  from  the  gardens ;  choice  fruit  grown  in 
the  open  air  or  under  glass,  for  there  were  some  fine 
houses  surrounded  by  well-kept  grounds,  and  green 
houses  and  graperies  were  not  unknown  in  the  small, 
but  favored  settlement. 

On  all  these  luxuries  Maurice  looked  with  dull  and 
languid  eyes.  A  faint  smile  of  gratitude  sometimes 
struggled  through  the  stillness  of  his  features,  or  a 
murmured  word  of  thanks  found  its  way  through  his 
parched  lips,  and  he  would  relapse  into  the  partial  stu 
por  or  the  fitful  sleep  in  which,  with  intervals  of  slight 
wandering,  the  slow  hours  dragged  along  the  sluggish 
days  one  after  another.  With  no  violent  symptoms, 
but  with  steady  persistency,  the  disease  moved  on  in 
its  accustomed  course.  It  was  at  no  time  immediately 
threatening,  but  the  experienced  physician  knew  its 
uncertainties  only  too  well.  He  had  known  fever 
patients  suddenly  seized  with  violent  internal  in- 


204  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

flammation,  and  carried  off  with  frightful  rapidity. 
He  remembered  the  case  of  a  convalescent,  a  young 
woman  who  had  been  attacked  while  in  apparently 
vigorous  general  health,  who,  on  being  lifted  too  sud 
denly  to  a  sitting  position,  while  still  confined  to  her 
bed,  fainted,  and  in  a  few  moments  ceased  to  breathe. 
It  may  well  be  supposed  that  he  took  every  possible 
precaution  to  avert  the  accidents  which  tend  to  throw 
from  its  track  a  disease  the  regular  course  of  which  is 
arranged  by  nature  as  carefully  as  the  route  of  a  rail 
road  from  one  city  to  another.  The  most  natural  in 
terpretation  which  the  common  observer  would  put 
upon  the  manifestations  of  one  of  these  autumnal  mal 
adies  would  be  that  some  noxious  combustible  element 
had  found  its  way  into  the  system  which  must  be 
burned  to  ashes  before  the  heat  which  pervades  the 
whole  body  can  subside.  Sometimes  the  fire  may 
smoulder  and  seem  as  if  it  were  going  out,  or  were 
quite  extinguished,  and  again  it  will  find  some  new 
material  to  seize  upon,  and  flame  up  as  fiercely  as  ever. 
Its  coming  on  most  frequently  at  the  season  when  the 
brush  fires  which  are  consuming  the  dead  branches, 
and  withered  leaves,  and  all  the  refuse  of  vegetation 
are  sending  up  their  smoke  is  suggestive.  Sometimes 
it  seems  as  if  the  body,  relieved  of  its  effete  materials, 
renewed  its  youth  after  one  of  these  quiet,  expurgat 
ing,  internal  fractional  cremations.  Lean,  pallid  stu 
dents  have  found  themselves  plump  and  blooming,  and 
it  has  happened  that  one  whose  hair  was  straight  as 
that  of  an  Indian  has  been  startled  to  behold  himself 
in  his  mirror  with  a  fringe  of  hyacinthine  curls  about 
his  rejuvenated  countenance. 

There  was  nothing  of  what  medical  men  call  ma 
lignity  in  the  case  of  Maurice  Kirkwood.     The  most 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  205 

alarming  symptom  was  a  profound  prostration,  which 
at  last  reached  such  a  point  that  he  lay  utterly  help 
less,  as  unable  to  move  without  aid  as  the  feeblest  of 
paralytics.  In  this  state  he  lay  for  many  days,  not 
suffering  pain,  but  with  the  sense  of  great  weariness, 
and  the  feeling  that  he  should  never  rise  from  his  bed 
again.  For  the  most  part  his  intellect  was  unclouded 
when  his  attention  was  aroused.  He  spoke  only  in 
whispers,  a  few  words  at  a  time.  The  doctor  felt  sure, 
by  the  expression  which  passed  over  his  features  from 
time  to  time,  that  something  was  worrying  and  oppress 
ing  him  ;  something  which  he  wished  to  communicate, 
and  had  not  the  force,  or  the  tenacity  of  purpose,  to 
make  perfectly  clear.  His  eyes  often  wandered  to  a 
certain  desk,  and  once  he  had  found  strength  to  lift 
his  emaciated  arm  and  point  to  it.  The  doctor  went 
towards  it  as  if  to  fetch  it  to  him,  but  he  slowly  shook 
his  head.  He  had  not  the  power  to  say  at  that  time 
what  he  wished.  The  next  day  he  felt  a  little  less 
prostrated,  and  succeeded  in  explaining  to  the  doctor 
what  he  wanted.  His  words,  so  far  as  the  physician 
could  make  them  out,  were  these  which  follow.  Dr. 
Butts  looked  upon  them  as  possibly  expressing  wishes 
which  would  be  his  last,  and  noted  them  down  care 
fully  immediately  after  leaving  his  chamber. 

"  I  commit  the  secret  of  my  life  to  your  charge. 
My  \vhole  story  is  told  in  a  paper  locked  in  that  desk. 
The  key  is  —  put  your  hand  under  my  pillow.  If  I 
die,  let  the  story  be  known.  It  will  show  that  I  was 
—  human  —  and  save  my  memory  from  reproach." 

He  was  silent  for  a  little  time.  A  single  tear  stole 
down  his  hollow  cheek.  The  doctor  turned  his  head 
away,  for  his  own  eyes  were  full.  But  he  said  to  him 
self,  "  It  is  a  good  sign  ;  I  begin  to  feel  strong  hopes 
that  he  will  recover." 


206  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

Maurice  spoke  once  more.  "  Doctor,  I  put  full 
trust  in  you.  You  are  wise  and  kind.  Do  what  you 
will  with  this  paper,  but  open  it  at  once  and  read.  I 
want  you  to  know  the  story  of  my  life  before  it  is  fin 
ished  —  if  the  end  is  at  hand.  Take  it  with  you  and 
read  it  before  you  sleep."  He  was  exhausted  and 
presently  his  eyes  closed,  but  the  doctor  saw  a  tran 
quil  look  on  his  features  which  added  encouragement 
to  his  hopes. 


XVIII. 
MAURICE  KIRKWOOD'S  STORY  OF  HIS  LIFE. 

I  AM  an  American  by  birth,  but  a  large  part  of  my 
life  has  been  passed  in  foreign  lands.  My  father  was 
a  man  of  education,  possessed  of  an  ample  fortune ; 
my  mother  was  considered  a  very  accomplished  and 
amiable  woman.  I  was  their  first  and  only  child.  She 
died  while  I  was  yet  an  infant.  If  I  remember  her  at 
all  it  is  as  a  vision,  more  like  a  glimpse  of  a  pre-natal 
existence  than  as  a  part  of  my  earthly  life.  At  the 
death  of  rny  mother  I  was  left  in  the  charge  of  the  old 
nurse  who  had  enjoyed  her  perfect  confidence.  She 
was  devoted  to  me,  and  I  became  absolutely  dependent 
on  her,  who  had  for  me  all  the  love  and  all  the  care  of 
a  mother.  I  was  naturally  the  object  of  the  attentions 
and  caresses  of  the  family  relatives.  I  have  been  told' 
that  I  was  a  pleasant,  smiling  infant,  witn  nothing  to 
indicate  any  peculiar  nervous  susceptibility ;  not  afraid 
of  strangers,  but  on  the  contrary  ready  to  make  their 
acquaintance.  My  father  was  devoted  to  me  and  did 
all  in  his  power  to  promote  my  health  and  comfort. 

I  was  still  a  babe,  often  carried  in  arms,  when  the 
event  happened  which  changed  my  whole  future  and 
destined  me  to  a  strange  and  lonely  existence.  I  can 
not  relate  it  even  now  without  a  sense  of  terror.  I 
must  force  myself  to  recall  the  circumstances  as  told 
me  and  vaguely  remembered,  for  I  am  not  willing  that 
my  doomed  and  wholly  exceptional  life  should  pass 


208  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

away  unrecorded,  unexplained,  unvindicated.  My  na 
ture  is,  I  feel  sure,  a  kind  and  social  one,  but  I  have 
lived  apart,  as  if  my  heart  were  filled  with  hatred  of 
my  fellow-creatures.  If  there  are  any  readers  who 
look  without  pity,  without  sympathy,  upon  those  who 
shun  the  fellowship  of  their  fellow  men  and  women, 
who  show  by  their  downcast  or  averted  eyes  that  they 
dread  companionship  and  long  for  solitude,  I  pray 
them,  if  this  paper  ever  reaches  them,  to  stop  at  this 
point.  Follow  me  no  further,  for  you  will  not  believe 
my  story,  nor  enter  into  the  feelings  which  I  am  about 
to  reveal.  But  if  there  are  any  to  whom  all  that  is 
human  is  of  interest,  who  have  felt  in  their  own  con 
sciousness  some  stirrings  of  invincible  attraction  to  one 
individual  and  equally  invincible  repugnance  to  an 
other,  who  know  by  their  own  experience  that  elective 
affinities  have  as  their  necessary  counterpart,  and,  as 
it  were,  their  polar  opposites,  currents  not  less  strong 
of  elective  repulsions,  let  them  read  with  unquestion 
ing  faith  the  story  of  a  blighted  life  I  am  about  to  re 
late,  much  of  it,  of  course,  received  from  the  lips  of 
others. 

My  cousin  Laura,  a  girl  of  seventeen,  lately  re 
turned  from  Europe,  was  considered  eminently  beau 
tiful.  It  was  in  my  second  summer  that  she  visited 
my  father's  house,  where  he  was  living  with  his  ser 
vants  and  my  old  nurse,  my  mother  having  but  re 
cently  left  him  a  widower.  Laura  was  full  of  vivac 
ity,  impulsive,  quick  in  her  movements,  thoughtless 
occasionally,  as  it  is  not  strange  that  a  young  girl  of 
her  age  should  be.  It  was  a  beautiful  summer  day 
when  she  saw  me  for  the  first  time.  My  nurse  had 
me  in  her  arms,  walking  back  and  forward  on  a 
balcony  with  a  low  railing,  upon  which  opened  the 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  209 

windows  of  the  second  story  of  my  father's  house. 
While  the  nurse  was  thus  carrying  me,  Laura  came 
suddenly  upon  the  balcony.  She  no  sooner  saw  me 
than  with  all  the  delighted  eagerness  of  her  youthful 
nature  she  rushed  toward  me,  and,  catching  me  from 
the  nurse's  arms,  began  tossing  me  after  the  fashion 
of  young  girls  who  have  been  so  lately  playing  with 
dolls  that  they  feel  as  if  babies  were  very  much  of 
the  same  nature.  The  abrupt  seizure  frightened  me  ; 
I  sprang  from  her  arms  in  my  terror,  and  fell  over 
the  railing  of  the  balcony.  I  should  probably  enough 
have  been  killed  on  the  spot  but  for  the  fact  that 
a  low  thorn-bush  grew  just  beneath  the  balcony,  into 
which  I  fell  and  thus  had  the  violence  of  the  shock 
broken.  But  the  thorns  tore  my  tender  flesh,  and  I 
bear  to  this  day  marks  of  the  deep  wounds  they  in 
flicted. 

That  dreadful  experience  is  burned  deep  into  my 
memory.  The  sudden  apparition  of  the  girl ;  the 
sense  of  being  torn  away  from  the  protecting  arms 
around  me ;  the  frantic  effort  to  escape  ;  the  shriek 
that  accompanied  my  fall  through  what  must  have 
seemed  immeasurable  space ;  the  cruel  lacerations  of 
the  piercing  and  rending  thorns,  —  all  these  fearful 
impressions  blended  in  one  paralyzing  terror. 

When  I  was  taken  up  I  was  thought  to  be  dead.  I 
was  perfectly  white,  and  the  physician  who  first  saw  me 
said  that  no  pulse  was  perceptible.  But  after  a  time 
consciousness  returned  ;  the  wounds,  though  painful, 
were  none  of  them  dangerous,  and  the  most  alarm 
ing  effects  of  the  accident  passed  away.  My  old 
nurse  cared  for  me  tenderly  day  and  night,  and  my 
father,  who  had  been  almost  distracted  in  the  first 
hours  which  followed  the  injury,  hoped  and  believed 
14 


210  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

that  no  permanent  evil  results  would  be  found  to  re 
sult  from  it.  My  cousin  Laura  was  of  course  deeply 
distressed  to  feel  that  her  thoughtlessness  had  been 
the  cause  of  so  grave  an  accident.  As  soon  as  I  had 
somewhat  recovered  she  came  to  see  me,  very  penitent, 
very  anxious  to  make  me  forget  the  alarm  she  had 
caused  me,  with  all  its  consequences.  I  was  in  the 
nursery  sitting  up  in  my  bed,  bandaged,  but  not  in 
any  pain,  as  it  seemed,  for  I  was  quiet  and  to  all  ap 
pearance  in  a  perfectly  natural  state  of  feeling.  As 
Laura  came  near  me  I  shrieked  and  instantly  changed 
color.  I  put  my  hand  upon  my  heart  as  if  I  had 
been  stabbed,  and  fell  over,  unconscious.  It  was  very 
much  the  same  state  as  that  in  which  I  was  found  im 
mediately  after  my  fall. 

The  cause  of  this  violent  and  appalling  seizure  was 
but  too  obvious.  The  approach  of  the  young  girl  and 
the  dread  that  she  was  about  to  lay  her  hand  upon  me 
had  called  up  the  same  train  of  effects  which  the  mo 
ment  of  terror  and  pain  had  already  occasioned.  The 
old  nurse  saw  this  in  a  moment.  "  Go !  go ! "  she 
cried  to  Laura,  —  "  go,  or  the  child  will  die  !  "  Her 
command  did  not  have  to  be  repeated.  After  Laura 
had  gone  I  lay  senseless,  white  and  cold  as  marble,  for 
some  time.  The  doctor  soon  came,  and  by  the  use  of 
smart  rubbing  and  stimulants  the  color  came  back 
slowly  to  my  cheeks  and  the  arrested  circulation  was 
again  set  in  motion. 

It  was  hard  to  believe  that  this  was  anything  more 
than  a  temporary  effect  of  the  accident.  There  could 
be  little  doubt,  it  was  thought  by  the  doctor  and  by 
my  father,  that  after  a  few  days  I  should  recover  from 
this  morbid  sensibility  and  receive  my  cousin  as  other 
infants  receive  pleasant-looking  young  persons.  The 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  211 

old  nurse  shook  her  head.  "  The  girl  will  be  the 
death  of  the  child,"  she  said,  "  if  she  touches  him  or 
conies  near  him.  His  heart  stopped  beating  just  as 
when  the  girl  snatched  him  out  of  my  arms,  and  he 
fell  over  the  balcony  railing."  Once  more  the  experi 
ment  was  tried,  cautiously,  almost  insidiously.  The 
same  alarming  consequences  followed.  It  was  too  evi 
dent  that  a  chain  of  nervous  disturbances  had  been 
set  up  in  my  system  which  repeated  itself  whenever 
the  original  impression  gave  the  first  impulse.  I 
never  saw  my  cousin  Laura  after  this  last  trial.  Its 
residt  had  so  distressed  her  that  she  never  ventured 
again  to  show  herself  to  me. 

If  the  effect  of  the  nervous  shock  had  stopped  there, 
it  would  have  been  a  misfortune  for  my  cousin  and 
myself,  but  hardly  a  calamity.  The  world  is  wide,  and 
a  cousin  or  two  more  or  less  can  hardly  be  considered 
an  essential  of  existence.  I  often  heard  Laura's  name 
mentioned,  but  never  by  any  one  who  was  acquainted 
with  all  the  circumstances,  for  it  was  noticed  that  I 
changed  color  and  caught  at  my  breast  as  if  I  wanted 
to  grasp  my  heart  in  my  hand  whenever  that  fatal 
name  was  mentioned. 

Alas !  this  was  not  all.  While  I  was  suffering  from 
the  effects  of  my  fall  among  the  thorns  I  was  attended 
by  my  old  nurse,  assisted  by  another  old  woman,  by  a 
physician,  and  my  father,  who  would  take  his  share 
in  caring  for  me.  It  was  thought  best  to  keep  me 
perfectly  quiet,  and  strangers  and  friends  were  alike 
excluded  from  my  nursery,  with  one  exception,  that 
my  old  grandmother  came  in  now  and  then.  With 
her  it  seems  that  I  was  somewhat  timid  and  shy,  fol 
lowing  her  with  rather  anxious  eyes,  as  if  not  quite 
certain  whether  or  not  she  was  dangerous.  But  one 


212  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

day,  when  I  was  far  advanced  towards  recovery,  my 
father  brought  in  a  young  lady,  a  relative  of  his,  who 
had  expressed  a  great  desire  to  see  me.  She  was,  as 
I  have  been  told,  a  very  handsome  girl,  of  about  the 
same  age  as  my  cousin  Laura,  but  bearing  no  per 
sonal  resemblance  to  her  in  form,  features,  or  com 
plexion.  She  had  no  sooner  entered  the  room  than 
the  same  sudden  changes  which  had  followed  my 
cousin's  visit  began  to  show  themselves,  and  before 
she  had  reached  my  bedside  I  was  in  a  state  of  deadly 
collapse,  as  on  the  occasions  already  mentioned. 

Some  time  passed  before  any  recurrence  of  these 
terrifying  seizures.  A  little  girl  of  five  or  six  years 
old  was  allowed  to  come  into  the  nursery  one  day  and 
bring  me  some  flowers.  I  took  them  from  her  hand, 
but  turned  away  and  shut  my  eyes.  There  was  no 
seizure,  but  there  was  a  certain  dread  and  aversion, 
nothing  more  than  a  feeling  which  it  might  be  hoped 
that  time  would  overcome.  Those  around  me  were 
gradually  finding  out  the  circumstances  which  brought 
on  the  deadly  attack  to  which  I  was  subject. 

The  daughter  of  one  of  our  near  neighbors  was  con 
sidered  the  prettiest  girl  of  the  village  where  we  were 
passing  the  summer.  She  was  very  anxious  to  see  me, 
and  as  I  was  now  nearly  well  it  was  determined  that 
she  should  be  permitted  to  pay  me  a  short  visit.  I  had 
always  delighted  in  seeing  her  and  being  caressed  by 
her.  I  was  sleeping  when  she  entered  the  nursery 
and  came  and  took  a  seat  at  my  side  in  perfect  silence. 
Presently  I  became  restless,  and  a  moment  later  I 
opened  my  eyes  and  saw  her  stooping  over  me.  My 
hand  went  to  my  left  breast,  —  the  color  faded  from 
my  cheeks,  —  I  was  again  the  cold  marble  image  so 
like  death  that  it  had  well-nigrh  been  mistaken  for  it. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  213 

Could  it  be  possible  that  the  fright  which  had 
chilled  my  blood  had  left  me  with  an  unconquerable 
fear  of  woman  at  the  period  when  she  is  most  attrac 
tive  not  only  to  adolescents,  but  to  children  of  tender 
age,  who  feel  the  fascination  of  her  flowing  locks,  her 
bright  eyes,  her  blooming  cheeks,  and  that  mysterious 
magnetism  of  sex  which  draws  all  life  into  its  warm 
and  potently  vitalized  atmosphere  ?  So  it  did  indeed 
seem.  The  dangerous  experiment  could  not  be  re 
peated  indefinitely.  It  was  not  intentionally  tried 
again,  but  accident  brought  about  more  than  one  re 
newal  of  it  during  the  following  years,  until  it  became 
fully  recognized  that  I  was  the  unhappy  subject  of  a 
mortal  dread  of  woman,  —  not  absolutely  of  the  human 
female,  for  I  had  no  fear  of  my  old  nurse  or  of  my 
grandmother,  or  of  any  old  wrinkled  face,  and  I  had 
become  accustomed  to  the  occasional  meeting  of  a  lit 
tle  girl  or  two,  whom  I  nevertheless  regarded  with  a 
certain  ill-defined  feeling  that  there  was  danger  in 
their  presence.  I  was  sent  to  a  boys'  school  very 
early,  and  during  the  first  ten  or  twelve  years  of  my 
life  I  had  rarely  any  occasion  to  be  reminded  of  my 
strange  idiosyncrasy. 

As  I  grew  out  of  boyhood  into  youth,  a  change 
came  over  the  feelings  which  had  so  long  held  com 
plete  possession  of  me.  This  was  what  my  father  and 
his  advisers  had  always  anticipated,  and  was  the 
ground  of  their  confident  hope  in  my  return  to  natural 
conditions  before  I  should  have  grown  to  mature  man 
hood. 

How  shall  I  describe  the  conflicts  of  those  dreamy, 
bewildering,  dreadful  years?  Visions  of  loveliness 
haunted  me  sleeping  and  waking.  Sometimes  a  grace 
ful  girlish  figure  would  so  draw  my  eyes  towards  it 


214  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

that  I  lost  sight  of  all  else,  and  was  ready  to  forget  all 
my  fears  and  find  myself  at  her  side,  like  other  youths 
by  the  side  of  young  maidens,  —  happy  in  their  cheer 
ful  companionship,  while  I,  —  I,  under  the  curse  of 
one  blighting  moment,  looked  on,  hopeless.  Some 
times  the  glimpse  of  a  fair  face  or  the  tone  of  a  sweet 
voice  stirred  within  me  all  the  instincts  that  make  the 
morning  of  life  beautiful  to  adolescence.  I  reasoned 
With  myself :  — 

Why  should  I  not  have  outgrown  that  idle  appre 
hension  which  had  been  the  nightmare  of  my  earlier 
years  ?  Why  should  not  the  rising  tide  of  life  have 
drowned  out  the  feeble  growths  that  infested  the  shal 
lows  of  childhood?  How  many  children  there  are 
who  tremble  at  being  left  alone  in  the  dark,  but  who, 
a  few  years  later,  will  smile  at  their  foolish  terrors  and 
brave  all  the  ghosts  of  a  haunted  chamber!  Why 
should  I  any  longer  be  the  slave  of  a  foolish  fancy  that 
has  grown  into  a  half  insane  habit  of  mind  ?  I  was 
familiarly  acquainted  with  all  the  stories  of  the  strange 
antipathies  and  invincible  repugnances  to  which  others, 
some  of  them  famous  men,  had  been  subject.  I  said 
to  myself,  Why  should  not  I  overcome  this  dread  of 
woman  as  Peter  the  Great  fought  down  his  dread  of 
wheels  rolling  over  a  bridge?  Was  I,  alone  of  all 
mankind,  to  be  doomed  to  perpetual  exclusion  from 
the  society  which,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  was  all  that 
rendered  existence  worth  the  trouble  and  fatigue  of 
slavery  to  the  vulgar  need  of  supplying  the  waste  of 
the  system  and  working  at  the  task  of  respiration  like 
the  daughters  of  Danaus,  —  toiling  day  and  night  as 
the  worn-out  sailor  labors  at  the  pump  of  his  sinking 
vessel ? 

Why  did  I  not  brave  the  risk  of  meeting  squarely, 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  215 

and  without  regard  to  any  possible  danger,  some  one 
of  those  fair  maidens  whose  far-off  smile,  whose  grace 
ful  movements,  at  once  attracted  and  agitated  me  ?  I 
can  only  answer  this  question  to  the  satisfaction  of  any 
really  inquiring  reader  by  giving  him  the  true  inter 
pretation  of  the  singular  phenomenon  of  which  I  was 
the  subject.  For  this  I  shall  have  to  refer  to  a  paper 
of  which  I  have  made  a  copy,  and  which  will  be  found 
included  with  this  manuscript.  It  is  enough  to  say 
here,  without  entering  into  the  explanation  of  the  fact, 
which  will  be  found  simple  enough  as  seen  by  the  light 
of  modern  physiological  science,  that  the  "nervous 
disturbance  "  which  the  presence  of  a  woman  in  the 
flower  of  her  age  produced  in  my  system  was  a  sense 
of  impending  death,  sudden,  overwhelming,  uncon 
querable,  appalling.  It  was  a  reversed  action  of  the 
nervous  centres,  —  the  opposite  of  that  which  flushes 
the  young  lover's  cheek  and  hurries  his  bounding  pulses 
as  he  comes  into  the  presence  of  the  object  of  his  pas 
sion.  No  one  who  has  ever  felt  the  sensation  can  have 
failed  to  recognize  it  as  an  imperative  summons,  which 
commands  instant  and  terrified  submission. 

It  was  at  this  period  of  my  life  that  my  father  de 
termined  to  try  the  effect  of  travel  and  residence  in 
different  localities  upon  my  bodily  and  mental  condi 
tion.  I  say  bodily  as  well  as  mental,  for  I  was  too 
slender  for  my  height  and  subject  to  some  nervous 
symptoms  which  were  a  cause  of  anxiety.  That  the 
mind  was  largely  concerned  in  these  there  was  no 
doubt,  buf  the  mutual  interactions  of  mind  and  body 
are  often  too  complex  to  admit  of  satisfactory  analysis. 
Each  is  in  part  cause  and  each  also  in  part  effect. 

We  passed  some  years  in  Italy,  chiefly  in  Rome, 
where  I  was  placed  in  a  school  conducted  by  priests, 


216  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

and  where  of  course  I  met  only  those  of  my  own  sex. 
There  I  had  the  opportunity  of  seeing  the  influences 
under  which  certain  young  Catholics,  destined  for  the 
priesthood,  are  led  to  separate  themselves  from  all 
communion  with  the  sex  associated  in  their  minds  with 
the  most  subtle  dangers  to  which  the  human  soul  can 
be  exposed.  I  became  in  some  degree  reconciled  to 
the  thought  of  exclusion  from  the  society  of  women  by 
seeing  around  me  so  many  who  were  self-devoted  to 
celibacy.  The  thought  sometimes  occurred  to  me 
whether  I  should  not  find  the  best  and  the  only  natu 
ral  solution  of  the  problem  of  existence,  as  submitted 
to  myself,  in  taking  upon  me  the  vows  which  settle 
the  whole  question  and  raise  an  impassable  barrier  be 
tween  the  devotee  and  the  object  of  his  dangerous  at 
traction. 

How  often  I  talked  this  whole  matter  over  with  the 
young  priest  who  was  at  onco  my  special  instructor 
and  my  favorite  companion !  But  accustomed  as  I 
had  become  to  the  forms  of  the  Roman  Church,  and 
impressed  as  I  was  with  the  purity  and  excellence  of 
many  of  its  young  members  with  whom  I  was  ac 
quainted,  my  early  training  rendered  it  impossible  for 
me  to  accept  the  credentials  which  it  offered  me  as  au 
thoritative.  My  friend  and  instructor  had  to  set  me 
down  as  a  case  of  "  invincible  ignorance."  This  was 
the  loop-hole  through  which  he  crept  out  of  the  pris 
on-house  of  his  creed,  and  was  enabled  to  look  upon 
me  without  the  feeling  of  absolute  despair  with  which 
his  sterner  brethren  would,  I  fear,  have  regarded  me. 

I  have  said  that  accident  exposed  me  at  times  to  the 
influence  which  I  had  such  reasons  for  dreading.  Here 
is  one  example  of  such  an  occurrence,  which  I  relate  as 
simply  as  possible,  vividly  as  it  is  impressed  upon  my 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  217 

memory.  A  young  friend  whose  acquaintance  I  had 
made  in  Rome  asked  me  one  day  to  come  to  his  rooms 
and  look  at  a  cabinet  of  gems  and  medals  which  he 
had  collected.  1  had  been  but  a  short  time  in  his 
library  when  a  vague  sense  of  uneasiness  came  over 
me.  My  heart  became  restless,  —  I  could  feel  it  stir 
ring  irregularly,  as  if  it  were  some  frightened  creature 
caged  in  my  breast.  There  was  nothing  that  I  could 
see  to  account  for  it.  A  door  was  partly  open,  but 
not  so  that  I  could  see  into  the  next  room.  The  feel 
ing  grew  upon  me  of  some  influence  which  was  para 
lyzing  my  circulation.  I  begged  my  friend  to  open  a 
window.  As  he  did  so,  the  door  swung  in  the  draught, 
and  I  saw  a  blooming  young  woman,  —  it  was  my 
friend's  sister,  who  had  been  sitting  with  a  book  in 
her  hand,  and  who  rose  at  the  opening  of  the  door. 
Something  had  warned  me  of  the  presence  of  a  woman, 
—  that  occult  and  potent  aura  of  individuality,  call  it 
personal  magnetism,  spiritual  effluence,  or  reduce  it 
to  a  simpler  expression  if  you  will ;  whatever  it  was, 
it  had  warned  me  of  the  nearness  of  the  dread  attrac 
tion  which  allured  at  a  distance  and  revealed  itself 
with  all  the  terrors  of  the  lorelei  if  approached  too 
recklessly.  A  sign  from  her  brother  caused  her  to 
withdraw  at  once,  but  not  before  I  had  felt  the  im 
pression  which  betrayed  itself  in  my  change  of  color, 
anxiety  about  the  region  of  the  heart,  and  sudden  fail 
ure  as  if  about  to  fall  in  a  deadly  fainting-fit. 

Does  all  this  seem  strange  and  incredible  to  the 
reader  of  my  manuscript  ?  Nothing  in  the  history  of 
life  is  so  strange  or  exceptional  as  it  seems  to  those 
who  have  not  made  a  long  study  of  its  mysteries.  I 
have  never  known  just  such  a  case  as  my  own,  and 
yet  there  must  have  been  such,  and  if  the  whole  his- 


218  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tory  of  mankind  were  unfolded  I  cannot  doubt  that 
there  have  been  many  like  it.  Let  my  reader  suspend 
his  judgment  until  he  has  read  the  paper  I  have  re 
ferred  to,  which  was  drawn  up  by  a  Committee  of  the 
Royal  Academy  of  the  Biological  Sciences.  In  this 
paper  the  mechanism  of  the  series  of  nervous  derange 
ments  to  which  I  have  been  subject  since  the  fatal 
shock  experienced  in  my  infancy  is  explained  in  lan 
guage  not  hard  to  understand.  It  will  be  seen  that 
such  a  change  of  polarity  in  the  nervous  centres  is 
only  a  permanent  form  and  an  extreme  degree  of  an 
emotional  disturbance,  which  as  a  temporary  and  com 
paratively  unimportant  personal  accident  is  far  from 
being  uncommon,  —  is  so  frequent,  in  fact,  that  every 
one  must  have  known  instances  of  it,  and  not  a  few 
must  have  had  more  or  less  serious  experiences  of  it 
in  their  own  private  history. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  my  imagination  dealt 
with  me  as  I  am  now  dealing  with  the  reader.  I  was 
full  of  strange  fancies  and  wild  superstitions.  One  of 
my  Catholic  friends  gave  me  a  silver  medal  which  had 
been  blessed  by  the  Pope,  and  which  I  was  to  wear 
next  my  body.  I  was  told  that  this  would  turn  black 
after  a  time,  in  virtue  of  a  power  which  it  possessed 
of  drawing  out  original  sin,  or  certain  portions  of  it, 
together  with  the  evil  and  morbid  tendencies  which 
had  been  engrafted  on  the  corrupt  nature.  I  wore 
the  medal  faithfully,  as  directed,  and  watched  it  care 
fully.  It  became  tarnished  and  after  a  time  darkened, 
but  it  wrought  no  change  in  my  unnatural  condition. 

There  was  an  old  gypsy  who  had  the  reputation  of 
knowing  more  of  futurity  than  she  had  any  right  to 
know.  The  story  was  that  she  had  foretold  the  as 
sassination  of  Count  Rossi  and  the  death  of  Cavour 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  219 

However  that  may  have  been,  I  was  pe^uaded  to  let 
her  try  her  black  art  upon  my  future.  I  shall  never 
forget  the  strange,  wild  look  of  the  wrinkled  hag  as 
she  took  my  hand  and  studied  its  lines  and  fixed  her 
wicked  old  eyes  on  my  young  countenance.  After 
this  examination  she  shook  her  head  and  muttered 
some  words,  which  as  nearly  as  I  could  get  them 
would  be  in  English  like  these  :  — 

Fair  lady  cast  a  spell  on  thee, 
Fair  lady's  hand  shall  set  thee  free. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  these  words  of  a  withered  old 
creature,  whose  palm  had  to  be  crossed  with  silver  to 
bring  forth  her  oracular  response,  have  always  clung 
to  my  memory  as  if  they  were  destined  to  fulfilment. 
The  extraordinary  nature  of  the  affliction  to  which  I 
was  subject  disposed  me  to  believe  the  incredible  with 
reference  to  all  that  relates  to  it.  I  have  never  ceased 
to  have  the  feeling  that,  sooner  or  later,  I  should  find 
myself  freed  from  the  blight  laid  upon  me  in  my  in 
fancy.  It  seems  as  if  it  would  naturally  come  through 
the  influence  of  some  young  and  fair  woman,  to  whom 
that  merciful  errand  should  be  assigned  by  the  Provi 
dence  that  governs  our  destiny.  With  strange  hopes, 
with  trembling  fears,  with  mingled  belief  and  doubt, 
wherever  I  have  found  myself  I  have  sought  with 
longing  yet  half-averted  eyes  for  the  "  elect  lady,"  as 
I  have  learned  to  call  her,  who  was  to  lift  the  curse 
from  my  ruined  life. 

Three  times  I  have  been  led  to  the  hope,  if  not  the 
belief,  that  I  had  found  the  object  of  my  superstitious 
belief.  Singularly  enough  it  was  always  on  the  water 
that  the  phantom  of  my  hope  appeared  before  my  be 
wildered  vision.  Once  it  was  an  English  girl  who 
was  a  fellow  passenger  with  me  in  one  of  my  ocean 


220  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

voyages.  I  need  not  say  that  she  was  beautiful,  for 
she  was  my  dream  realized.  I  heard  her  singing,  I 
saw  her  walking  the  deck  on  some  of  the  fair  days 
when  sea-sickness  was  forgotten.  The  passengers  were 
a  social  company  enough,  but  I  had  kept  myself  apart, 
as  was  my  wont.  At  last  the  attraction  became  too 
strong  to  resist  any  longer.  "  I  will  venture  into  the 
charmed  circle  if  it  kills  me,"  I  said  to  my  father.  I 
did  venture,  and  it  did  not  kill  me,  or  I  should  not  be 
telling  this  story.  But  there  was  a  repetition  of  the 
old  experiences.  I  need  not  relate  the  series  of  alarm 
ing  consequences  of  my  venture.  The  English  girl 
was  very  lovely,  and  I  have  no  doiibt  has  made  some 
one  supremely  happy  before  this,  but  she  was  not  the 
"  elect  lady  "  of  the  prophecy  and  of  my  dreams. 

A  second  time  I  thought  myself  for  a  moment  in 
the  presence  of  the  destined  deliverer  who  was  to  re 
store  me  to  my  natural  place  among  my  fellow  men 
and  women.  It  was  on  the  Tiber  that  I  met  the 
young  maiden  who  drew  me  once  more  into  that  inner 
circle  which  surrounded  young  womanhood  with  dead 
ly  peril  for  me,  if  I  dared  to  pass  its  limits.  I  was 
floating  with  the  stream  in  the  little  boat  in  which  I 
passed  many  long  hours  of  reverie  when  I  saw  another 
small  boat  with  a  boy  and  a  young  girl  in  it.  The 
boy  had  been  rowing,  and  one  of  his  oars  had  slipped 
from  his  grasp.  He  did  not  know  how  to  paddle  with 
a  single  oar,  and  was  hopelessly  rowing  round  and 
round,  his  oar  all  the  time  floating  farther  away  from 
him.  I  could  not  refuse  my  assistance.  I  picked  up 
the  oar  and  brought  my  skiff  alongside  of  the  boat. 
When  I  handed  the  oar  to  the  boy  the  young  girl 
lifted  her  veil  and  thanked  me  in  the  exquisite  music 
of  the  language  which 


A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY.  221 

"  Sounds  as  if  it  should  be  writ  on  satin." 
She  was  a  type  of  Italian  beauty,  —  a  nocturne  in 
flesh  and  blood,  if  I  may  borrow  a  term  certain  artists 
are  fond  of ;  but  it  was  her  voice  which  captivated 
me  and  for  a  moment  made  me  believe  that  1  was 
no  longer  shut  off  from  all  relations  with  the  social 
life  of  my  race.  An  hour  later  I  was  found  lying  in 
sensible  on  the  floor  of  my  boat,  white,  cold,  almost 
pulseless.  It  cost  much  patient  labor  to  bring  me 
back  to  consciousness.  Had  not  such  extreme  efforts 
been  made,  it  seems  probable  that  I  should  never  have 
waked  from  a  slumber  which  was  hardly  distinguish 
able  from  that  of  death. 

Why  should  I  provoke  a  catastrophe  which  appears 
inevitable  if  I  invite  it  by  exposing  myself  to  its  too 
well  ascertained  cause  ?  The  habit  of  these  deadly 
seizures  has  become  a  second  nature.  The  strongest 
and  the  ablest  men  have  found  it  impossible  to  resist 
the  impression  produced  by  the  most  insignificant  ob 
ject,  by  the  most  harmless  sight  or  sound  to  which 
they  had  a  congenital  or  acquired  antipathy.  What 
prospect  have  I  of  ever  being  rid  of  this  long  and 
deep-seated  infirmity  ?  I  may  well  ask  myself  these 
questions,  but  my  answer  is  that  I  will  never  give 
up  the  hope  that  time  will  yet  bring  its  remedy. 
It  may  be  that  the  wild  prediction  which  so  haunts  me 
shall  find  itself  fulfilled.  I  have  had  of  late  strange 
premonitions,  to  which  if  I  were  superstitious  I  could 
not  help  giving  heed.  But  I  have  seen  too  much 
of  the  faith  that  deals  in  miracles  to  accept  the 
supernatural  in  any  shape,  —  assuredly  when  it  comes 
from  an  old  witch-like  creature  who  takes  pay  for  her 
revelations  of  the  future.  Be  it  so  :  though  I  am  not 
superstitious,  I  have  a  right  to  be  imaginative,  and  my 


222  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

imagination  will  hold  to  those  words  of  the  old  zingara 
with  an  irresistible  feeling  that,  sooner  or  later,  they 
will  prove  true. 

Can  it  be  possible  that  her  prediction  is  not  far 
from  its  realization?  I  have  had  both  waking  and 
sleeping  visions  within  these  last  months  and  weeks 
which  have  taken  possession  of  me  and  filled  my  life 
with  new  thoughts,  new  hopes,  new  resolves. 

Sometimes  on  the  bosom  of  the  lake  by  which  I  am 
dreaming  away  this  season  of  bloom  and  fragrance, 
sometimes  in  the  fields  or  woods  in  a  distant  glimpse, 
once  in  a  nearer  glance,  which  left  me  pale  and  tremu 
lous,  yet  was  followed  by  a  swift  reaction,  so  that  my 
cheeks  flushed  and  my  pulse  bounded,  I  have  seen  her 
who  —  how  do  I  dare  to  tell  it  so  that  rny  own  eyes 
can  read  it  ?  —  I  cannot  help  believing  is  to  be  my 
deliverer,  my  saviour. 

I  have  been  warned  in  the  most  solemn  and  im 
pressive  language  by  the  experts  most  deeply  read  in 
the  laws  of  life  and  the  history  of  its  disturbing  and 
destroying  influences,  that  it  would  be  at  the  imminent 
risk  of  my  existence  if  I  should  expose  myself  to 
the  repetition  of  my  former  experiences.  I  was  re 
minded  that  unexplained  sudden  deaths  were  of  con 
stant,  of  daily  occurrence  ;  that  any  emotion  is  liable 
to  arrest  the  movements  of  life :  terror,  joy,  good 
news  or  bad  news,  —  anything  that  reaches  the  deeper 
nervous  centres.  I  had  already  died  once,  as  Sir 
Charles.Napier  said  of  himself ;  yes,  more  than  once, 
died  and  been  resuscitated.  The  next  time,  I  might 
very  probably  fail  to  get  my  return  ticket  after  my 
visit  to  Hades.  It  was  a  rather  grim  stroke  of  humor, 
but  I  understood  its  meaning  full  well,  and  felt  the 
force  of  its  menace. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  223 

After  all,  what  had  I  to  live  for  if  the  great  primal 
instinct  which  strives  to  make  whole  the  half  life  of 
lonely  manhood  is  defeated,  suppressed,  crushed  out 
of  existence  ?  Why  not  as  well  die  in  the  attempt  to 
break  up  a  wretched  servitude  to  a  perverted  nervous 
movement  as  in  any  other  way?  I  am  alone  in  the 
world,  —  alone  save  for  my  faithful  servant,  through 
whom  I  seem  to  hold  to  the  human  race  as  it  were  by 
a  single  filament.  My  father,  who  was  my  instructor, 
my  companion,  my  dearest  and  best  friend  through  all 
my  later  youth  and  my  earlier  manhood,  died  three 
years  ago  and  left  me  my  own  master,  with  the 
means  of  living  as  might  best  please  my  fancy.  This 
season  shall  decide  my  fate.  One  more  experiment, 
and  I  shall  find  myself  restored  to  my  place  among  my 
fellow-beings,  or,  as  I  devoutly  hope,  in  a  sphere  where 
all  our  mortal  infirmities  are  past  and  forgotten. 

I  have  told  the  story  of  a  blighted  life  without  re 
serve,  so  that  there  shall  not  remain  any  mystery  or 
any  dark  suspicion  connected  with  my  memory  if  I 
should  be  taken  away  unexpectedly.  It  has  cost  me  an 
effort  to  do  it,  but  now  that  my  life  is  on  record  I  feel 
more  reconciled  to  my  lot,  with  all  its  possibilities,  — 
and  among  these  possibilities  is  a  gleam  of  a  better 
future.  I  have  been  told  by  my  advisers,  some  of 
them  wise,  deeply  instructed,  and  kind-hearted  men, 
that  such  a  life-destiny  should  be  related  by  the 
subject  of  it  for  the  instruction  of  others,  and  espe 
cially  for  the  light  it  throws  on  certain  peculiarities  of 
human  character  often  wrongly  interpreted  as  due  to 
moral  perversion,  when  they  are  in  reality  the  results 
of  misdirected  or  reversed  actions  in  some  of  the 
closely  connected  nervous  centres. 


224  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

For  myself  I  can  truly  say  that  I  have  very  little 
morbid  sensibility  left  with  reference  to  the  destiny 
which  has  been  allotted  to  me.  I  have  passed  through 
different  stages  of  feeling  with  reference  to  it,  as  I 
have  developed  from  infancy  to  manhood.  At  first  it 
was  mere  blind  instinct  about  which  I  had  no  thought, 
living  like  other  infants  the  life  of  impressions  without 
language  to  connect  them  in  series.  In  my  boyhood 
I  began  to  be  deeply  conscious  of  the  infirmity  which 
separated  me  from  those  around  me.  In  youth  began 
that  conflict  of  emotions  and  impulses  with  the  antag 
onistic  influence  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  a 
conflict  which  has  never  ceased,  but  to  which  I  have 
necessarily  become  to  a  certain  degree  accustomed, 
and  against  the  dangers  of  which  I  have  learned  to 
guard  myself  habitually.  That  is  the  meaning  of  my 
isolation.  You,  young  man,  —  if  at  any  time  your 
eyes  shall  look  upon  my  melancholy  record,  —  you  at 
least  will  understand  me.  Does  not  your  heart  throb, 
in  the  presence  of  budding  or  blooming  womanhood, 
sometimes  as  if  it  "  were  ready  to  crack "  with  its 
own  excess  of  strain  ?  What  if  instead  of  throbbing 
it  should  falter,  flutter,  and  stop  as  if  never  to  beat 
again  ?  You,  young  woman,  who  with  ready  belief 
and  tender  sympathy  will  look  upon  these  pages,  if 
they  are  ever  spread  before  you,  know  what  it  is  when 
your  breast  heaves  with  uncontrollable  emotion  and 
the  grip  of  the  bodice  seems  unendurable  as  the  em 
brace  of  the  iron  virgin  of  the  Inquisition.  Think 
what  it  would  be  if  the  grasp  were  tightened  so  that 
no  breath  of  air  could  enter  your  panting  chest ! 

Does  your  heart  beat  in  the  sain  p.  way,  young  man, 
when  your  honored  friend,  a  venerable  matron  of 
seventy  years,  greets  you  with  her  kindly  smile  as  it 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  225 

does  iii  the  presence  of  youthful  loveliness  ?  When  a 
pretty  child  brings  you  her  doll  and  looks  into  your 
eyes  with  artless  grace  and  trustful  simplicity,  does 
your  pulse  quicken,  do  you  tremble,  does  life  palpitate 
through  your  whole  being,  as  when  the  maiden  of  sev 
enteen  meets  your  enamored  sight  in  the  glow  of  her 
rosebud  beauty  ?  Wonder  not,  then,  if  the  period  of 
mystic  attraction  for  you  should  be  that  of  agitation, 
terror,  danger,  to  one  in  whom  the  natural  current  of 
the  instincts  has  had  its  course  changed  as  that  of  a 
stream  is  changed  by  a  convulsion  of  nature,  so  that 
the  impression  which  is  new  life  to  you  is  death  to 
him. 

I  am  now  twenty-five  years  old.  I  have  reached  the 
time  of  life  which  I  have  dreamed,  nay  even  ventured 
to  hope,  might  be  the  limit  of  the  sentence  which  was 
pronounced  upon  me  in  my  infancy.  I  can  assign  no 
good  reason  for  this  anticipation.  But  in  writing  this 
paper  I  feel  as  if  I  were  preparing  to  begin  a  renewed 
existence.  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  be  ashamed  of 
in  the  story  I  have  told.  There  is  no  man  living  who 
would  not  have  yielded  to  the  sense  of  instantly  im 
pending  death  which  seized  upon  me  under  the  condi 
tions  I  have  mentioned.  Martyrs  have  gone  singing 
to  their  flaming  shrouds,  but  never  a  man  could  hold 
his  breath  long  enough  to  kill  himself  ;  he  must  have 
rope  or  water,  or  some  mechanical  help,  or  nature  will 
make  him  draw  in  a  breath  of  air,  and  would  make 
him  do  so  though  he  knew  the  salvation  of  the  human 
race  would  be  forfeited  by  that  one  gasp. 

This  paper  may  never  reach  tho  eye  of  any  one  af 
flicted  in  the  same  way  that  I  have  been.  It  probably 
never  will ;  but  for  all  that,  there  are  many  shy  na- 

15 


226  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tures  which  will  recognize  tendencies  in  themselves  in 
the  direction  of  my  unhappy  susceptibility.  Others, 
to  whom  such  weakness  seems  inconceivable,  will  find 
their  scepticism  shaken,  if  not  removed,  by  the  calm, 
judicial  statement  of  the  Report  drawn  up  for  the 
Royal  Academy.  It  will  make  little  difference  to  me 
whether  my  story  is  accepted  unhesitatingly  or  looked 
upon  as  largely  a  product  of  the  imagination.  I  am 
but  a  bird  of  passage  that  lights  on  the  boughs  of  dif 
ferent  nationalities.  I  belong  to  no  flock ;  my  home 
may  be  among  the  palms  of  Syria,  the  olives  of  Italy, 
the  oaks  of  England,  the  elms  that  shadow  the  Hud 
son  or  the  Connecticut ;  I  build  no  nest ;  to-day  I  am 
here,  to-morrow  on  the  wing. 

If  I  quit  my  native  land  before  the  trees  have 
dropped  their  leaves  I  shall  place  this  manuscript  in 
the  safe  hands  of  one  whom  I  feel  sure  that  I  can 
trust,  to  do  with  it  as  he  shall  see  fit.  If  it  is  only 
curious  and  has  no  bearing  011  human  welfare,  he  may 
think  it  well  to  let  it  remain  unread  until  I  shall  have 
passed  away.  If  in  his  judgment  it  throws  any  light 
on  one  of  the  deeper  mysteries  of  our  nature,  —  the 
repulsions  which  play  such  a  formidable  part  in  social 
life,  and  which  must  be  recognized  as  the  correlatives 
of  the  affinities  that  distribute  the  individuals  gov 
erned  by  them  in  the  face  of  impediments  which  seem 
to  be  impossibilities,  —  then  it  may  be  freely  given  to 
the  world. 

But  if  I  am  here  when  the  leaves  are  all  fallen,  the 
programme  of  my  life  will  have  changed,  and  this 
story  of  the  dead  past  will  be  illuminated  by  the  light 
of  a  living  present  which  will  irradiate  all  its  sadden 
ing  features.  Who  would  not  pray  that  my  last  gleam 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  227 

of  light  and  hope  may  be  that  of  dawn  and  not  of  de 
parting  day  ? 


The  reader  who  finds  it  hard  to  accept  the  reality  of 
a  story  so  far  from  the  common  range  of  experience  is 
once  more  requested  to  suspend  his  judgment  until  he 
has  read  the  paper  which  will  next  be  offered  for  his 
consideration. 


XIX. 

THE  REPORT   OF   THE   BIOLOGICAL   COMMITTEE. 

PERHAPS  it  is  too  much  to  expect  a  reader  who 
wishes  to  be  entertained,  excited,  amused,  and  does  not 
want  to  work  his  passage  through  pages  which  he  can 
not  understand  without  some  effort  of  his  own,  to  read 
the  paper  which  follows  and  Dr.  Butts's  reflections 
upon  it.  If  he  has  no  curiosity  in  the  direction  of 
these  chapters,  he  can  afford  to  leave  them  to  such  as 
relish  a  slight  flavor  of  science.  But  if  he  does  so 
leave  them  he  will  very  probably  remain  sceptical  as 
to  the  truth  of  the  story  to  which  they  are  meant  to 
furnish  him  with  a  key. 

Of  course  the  case  of  Maurice  Kirkwood  is  a  re 
markable  and  exceptional  one,  and  it  is  hardly  proba 
ble  that  any  reader's  experience  will  furnish  him  with 
its  parallel.  But  let  him  look  back  over  all  his  ac 
quaintances,  if  he  has  reached  middle  life,  and  see  if 
he  cannot  recall  more  than  one  who,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  shunned  the  society  of  young  women,  as  if 
they  had  a  deadly  fear  of  their  company.  If  he  remem 
bers  any  such,  he  can  understand  the  simple  statements 
and  natural  reflections  which  are  laid  before  him. 

One  of  the  most  singular  facts  connected  with  the 
history  of  Maurice  Kirkwood  was  the  philosophical 
equanimity  with  which  he  submitted  to  the  fate  which 
had  fallen  upon  him.  He  did  not  choose  to  be  pumped 
by  the  Interviewer,  who  would  show  him  up  in  the 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  229 

sensational  columns  of  his  prying  newspaper.  He  lived 
chiefly  by  himself,  as  the  easiest  mode  of  avoiding 
those  meetings  to  which  he  would  be  exposed  in  almost 
every  society  into  which  he  might  venture.  But  he 
had  learned  to  look  upon  himself  very  much  as  he 
would  upon  an  intimate  not  himself,  —  upon  a  differ 
ent  personality.  A  young  man  will  naturally  enough 
be  ashamed  of  his  shyness.  It  is  something  which 
others  believe,  and  perhaps  he  himself  thinks,  he  might 
overcome.  But  in  the  case  of  Maurice  Kirkwood 
there  was  no  room  for  doubt  as  to  the  reality  and 
gravity  of  the  long  enduring  effects  of  his  first  convul 
sive  terror.  He  had  accepted  the  fact  as  he  would 
have  accepted  the  calamity  of  losing  his  sight  or  his 
hearing.  When  he  was  questioned  by  the  experts  to 
whom  his  case  was  submitted,  he  told  them  all  that 
he  knew  about  it  almost  without  a  sign  of  emotion. 
Nature  was  so  peremptory  with  him,  —  saying  in  lan 
guage  that  had  no  double  meaning :  "  If  you  violate 
the  condition  on  which  you  hold  my  gift  of  existence 
I  slay  you  on  the  spot,"  —  that  he  became  as  decisive 
in  his  obedience  as  she  was  in  her  command,  and  ac 
cepted  his  fate  without  repining. 

Yet  it  must  not  be  thought  for  a  moment,  —  it  can 
not  be  supposed,  —  that  he  was  insensible  because  he 
looked  upon  himself  with  the  coolness  of  an  enforced 
philosophy.  He  bore  his  burden  manfully,  hard  as  it 
was  to  live  under  it,  for  he  lived,  as  we  have  seen,  in 
hope.  The  thought  of  throwing  it  off  with  his  life,  as 
too  grievous  to  be  borne,  was  familiar  to  his  lonely 
hours,  but  he  rejected  it  as  unworthy  of  his  manhood. 
How  he  had  speculated  and  dreamed  about  it  is  plain 
enough  from  the  paper  the  reader  may  remember  on 
Ocean,  River,  and  Lake. 


230  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

With  these  preliminary  hints  the  paper  promised 
is  submitted  to  such  as  may  find  any  interest  in  them. 

ACCOUNT  OF  A  CASE  OF  GYNOPHOBIA. 

WITH   REMARKS. 

Being  the  Substance  of  a  Report  to  the  Royal  Academy  of  the  Bio~ 
logical  Sciences  by  a  Committee  of  that  Institution. 

"  The  singular  nature  of  the  case  we  are  about  to 
narrate  and  comment  upon  will,  we  feel  confident,  ar 
rest  the  attention  of  those  who  have  learned  the  great 
fact  that  Nature  often  throws  the  strongest  light  upon 
her  laws  by  the  apparent  exceptions  and  anomalies 
which  from  time  to  time  are  observed.  We  have  done 
with  the  lusus  naturce  of  earlier  generations.  We 
pay  little  attention  to  the  stories  of  '  miracles,'  except 
so  far  as  we  receive  them  ready-made  at  the  hands  of 
the  churches  which  still  hold  to  them.  Not  the  less  do 
we  meet  with  strange  and  surprising  facts,  which  a 
century  or  two  ago  would  have  been  handled  by  the 
clergy  and  the  courts,  but  to-day  are  calmly  recorded 
and  judged  by  the  best  light  our  knowledge  of  the  laws 
of  life  can  throw  upon  them.  It  must  be  owned  that 
there  are  stories  which  we  can  hardly  dispute,  so  clear 
and  full  is  the  evidence  in  their  support,  which  do, 
notwithstanding,  tax  our  faith  and  sometimes  leave  us 
sceptical  in  spite  of  all  the  testimony  which  supports 
them. 

"  In  this  category  many  will  be  disposed  to  place 
the  case  we  commend  to  the  candid  attention  of  the 
Academy.  If  one  were  told  that  a  young  man,  a  gen 
tleman  by  birth  and  training,  well  formed,  in  appar 
ently  perfect  health,  of  agreeable  physiognomy  and 
manners,  could  not  endure  the  presence  of  the  most  at- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  231 

tractive  young  woman,  but  was  seized  with  deadly  ter 
ror  and  sudden  collapse  of  all  the  powers  of  life,  if  he 
came  into  her  immediate  presence ;  if  it  were  added 
that  this  same  young  man  did  not  shrink  from  the 
presence  of  an  old  withered  crone ;  that  he  had  a  cer 
tain  timid  liking  for  little  maidens  who  had  not  yet 
outgrown  the  company  of  their  dolls,  the  listener  would 
be  apt  to  smile,  if  he  did  not  laugh,  at  the  absurdity 
of  the  fable.  Surely,  he  would  say,  this  must  be  the 
fiction  of  some  fanciful  brain,  the  whim  of  some  ro 
mancer,  the  trick  of  some  playwright.  It  would  make 
a  capital  farce,  this  idea,  carried  out.  A  young  man 
slighting  the  lovely  heroine  of  the  little  comedy  and 
making  love  to  her  grandmother!  This  would,  of 
course,  be  overstating  the  truth  of  the  story,  but  to 
such  a  misinterpretation  the  plain  facts  lend  themselves 
too  easily.  We  will  relate  the  leading  circumstances 
of  the  case,  as  they  were  told  us  with  perfect  simplic 
ity  and  frankness  by  the  subject  of  an  affection  which, 
if  classified,  would  come  under  the  general  head  of 
Antipathy,  but  to  which,  if  we  give  it  a  name,  we 
shall  have  to  apply  the  term  Gynophobia,  or  Fear  of 
Woman" 

[Here  follows  the  account  furnished  to  the  writer  of 
the  paper,  which  is  in  all  essentials  identical  with  that 
already  laid  before  the  reader.] 

"  Such  is  the  case  offered  to  our  consideration.  As 
suming  its  truthfulness  in  all  its  particulars,  it  remains 
to  see  in  the  first  place  whether  or  not  it  is  as  entirely 
exceptional  and  anomalous  as  it  seems  at  first  sight,  or 
whether  it  is  only  the  last  term  of  a  series  of  cases 
which  in  their  less  formidable  aspect  are  well  known 
to  us  in  literature,  in  the  records  of  science,  and  even 
in  our  common  experience. 


232  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

"  To  most  of  those  among  us  the  explanations  we 
are  now  about  to  give  are  entirely  superfluous.  But 
there  are  some  whose  chief  studies  have  been  in  differ 
ent  directions,  and  who  will  not  complain  if  certain 
facts  are  mentioned  which  to  the  expert  will  seem  rudi 
mentary,  and  which  hardly  require  recapitulation  to 
those  who  are  familiarly  acquainted  with  the  common 
text-books. 

"  The  heart  is  the  centre  of  every  living  movement 
in  the  higher  animals,  and  in  man,  furnishing  in  vary 
ing  amount,  or  withholding  to  a  greater  or  less  extent, 
the  needful  supplies  to  all  parts  of  the  system.  If  its 
action  is  diminished  to  a  certain  degree,  faintness  is 
the  immediate  consequence ;  if  it  is  arrested,  loss  of 
consciousness ;  if  its  action  is  not  soon  restored,  death, 
of  which  fainting  plants  the  white  flag,  remains  in  pos 
session  of  the  system. 

"  How  closely  the  heart  is  under  the  influence  of 
the  emotions  we  need  not  go  to  science  to  learn,  for  all 
human  experience  and  all  literature  are  overflowing 
with  evidence  that  shows  the  extent  of  this  relation. 
Scripture  is  full  of  it ;  the  heart  in  Hebrew  poetry 
represents  the  entire  life,  we  might  almost  say.  Not 
less  forcible  is  the  language  of  Shakespeare,  as  for  in 
stance,  in  '  Measure  for  Measure : '  — 

'  Why  does  my  blood  thus  muster  to  my  heart, 
Making  it  both  unable  for  itself 
And  dispossessing  all  my  other  parts 
Of  necessary  fitness  ?  ' 

More  especially  is  the  heart  associated  in  every  litera 
ture  with  the  passion  of  love.  A  famous  old  story  is 
that  of  Galen,  who  was  called  to  the  case  of  a  young 
lady  long  ailing,  and  wasting  away  from  some  cause 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  233 

the  physicians  who  had  already  seen  her  were  unable 
to  make  out.  The  shrewd  old  practitioner  suspected 
that  love  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  young  lady's  mal 
ady.  Many  relatives  and  friends  of  both  sexes,  all  of 
them  ready  with  their  sympathy,  came  to  see  her.  The 
physician  sat  by  her  bedside  during  one  of  these  vis 
its,  and  in  an  easy,  natural  way  took  her  hand  and 
placed  a  finger  on  her  pulse.  It  beat  quietly  enough 
until  a  certain  comely  young  gentleman  entered  the 
apartment,  when  it  suddenly  rose  in  frequency,  and  at 
the  same  moment  her  hurried  breathing,  her  changing 
color,  pale  and  flushed  by  turns,  betrayed  the  pro 
found  agitation  his  presence  excited.  This  was  enough 
for  the  sagacious  Greek  ;  love  was  the  disease,  the  cure 
of  which  by  its  like  may  be  claimed  as  an  anticipation 
of  homoeopathy.  In  the  frontispiece  to  the  fine  old 
'  Junta  '  edition  of  the  works  of  Galen,  you  may  find 
among  the  wood-cuts  a  representation  of  the  interest 
ing  scene,  with  the  title  Amantis  Diynotio,  —  the 
diagnosis,  or  recognition,  of  the  lover. 

"  Love  has  many  languages,  but  the  heart  talks 
through  all  of  them.  The  pallid  or  burning  cheek 
tells  of  the  failing  or  leaping  fountain  which  gives  it 
color.  The  lovers  at  the  '  Brookside  '  could  hear  each 
other's  hearts  beating.  When  Genevieve,  in  Cole 
ridge's  poem,  forgot  herself,  and  was  beforehand  with 
her  suitor  in  her  sudden  embrace,  — 

'  'T  was  partly  love  and  partly  fear, 

And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart.' 

Always  the  heart,  whether  its  hurried  action  is  seen, 
or  heard,  or  felt.  But  it  is  not  always  in  this  way 
that  the  '  deceitful '  organ  treats  the  lover. 


234  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

'Faint  heart  never  won  fair  lady.' 

This  saying  was  not  meant,  perhaps,  to  be  taken  liter 
ally,  but  it  has  its  literal  truth.  Many  a  lover  has 
found  his  heart '  sink  within  him,'  —  lose  all  its  force, 
and  leave  him  weak  as  a  child  in  his  emotion  at  the 
sight  of  the  object  of  his  affections.  When  Porphyro 
looked  upon  Madeline  at  her  prayers  in  the  chapel,  it 
was  too  much  for  him  :  — 

'  She  seemed  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven  :  — Porphyro  grew  faint, 
She  knelt,  so  pure  a  thing,  so  free  from  earthly  taint.' 

And  in  Balzac's  novel,  '  Ce"sar  Birotteau,'  the  hero  of 
the  story  '•fainted  away  for  joy  at  the  moment  when, 
under  a  linden-tree,  at  Sceaux,  Constance-Barbe-Jose- 
phine  accepted  him  as  her  future  husband.' 

.  "  One  who  faints  is  dead  if  he  does  not  '  come  to,' 
and  nothing  is  more  likely  than  that  too  susceptible 
lovers  have  actually  gone  off  in  this  way.  Everything 
depends  on  how  the  heart  behaves  itself  in  these  and 
similar  trying  moments.  Tho  mechanism  of  its  ac 
tions  becomes  an  interesting  subject,  therefore,  to  lov 
ers  of  both  sexes,  and  to  all  who  are  capable  of  intense 
emotions. 

"  The  heart  is  a  great  reservoir,  which  distributes 
food,  drink,  air,  and  heat  to  every  part  of  the  system, 
in  exchange  for  its  waste  material.  It  knocks  at  the 
gate  of  every  organ  seventy  or  eighty  times  in  a  min 
ute,  calling  upon  it  to  receive  its  supplies  and  unload 
its  refuse.  Between  it  and  the  brain  there  is  tho 
closest  relation.  The  emotions,  which  act  upon  it  as 
we  have  seen,  govern  it  by  a  mechanism  only  of  late 
years  thoroughly  understood.  This  mechanism  can  be 
made  plain  enough  to  the  reader  who  is  not  afraid  to 
believe  that  he  can  understand  it. 


A   MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  235 

"  The  brain,  as  all  know,  is  the  seat  of  ideas,  emo 
tions,  volition.  It  is  the  great  central  telegraphic  sta 
tion  with  which  many  lesser  centres  are  in  close  rela 
tion,  from  which  they  receive,  and  to  which  they 
transmit,  their  messages.  The  heart  has  its  own  lit 
tle  brains,  so  to  speak,  —  small  collections  of  nervous 
substance  which  govern  its  rhythmical  motions  under 
ordinary  conditions.  But  these  lesser  nervous  centres 
are  to  a  large  extent  dominated  by  influences  trans 
mitted  from  certain  groups  of  nerve-cells  in  the  brain 
and  its  immediate  dependencies. 

"  There  are  two  among  the  special  groups  of  nerve- 
cells  which  produce  directly  opposite  effects.  One  of 
these  has  the  power  of  accelerating  the  action  of  the 
heart,  while  the  other  has  the  power  of  retarding  or 
arresting  this  action.  One  acts  as  the  spur,  the  other 
as  the  bridle.  According  as  one  or  the  other  pre 
dominates,  the  action  of  the  heart  will  be  stimulated 
or  restrained.  Among  the  great  modern  discoveries 
in  physiology  is  that  of  the  existence  of  a  distinct  cen 
tre  of  inhibition,  as  the  restraining  influence  over  the 
heart  is  called. 

"  The  centre  of  inhibition  plays  a  terrible  part  in 
the  history  of  cowardice  and  of  unsuccessful  love.  No 
man  can  be  brave  without  blood  to  sustain  his  courage, 
any  more  than  he  can  think,  as  the  German  material 
ist  says,  not  absurdly,  without  phosphorus.  The  faint 
ing  lover  must  recover  his  circulation,  or  his  lady  will 
lend  him  her  smelling-salts  and  take  a  gallant  with 
blood  in  his  cheeks.  Porphyro  got  over  his  faintness 
before  he  ran  away  with  Madeline,  and  Ce*sar  Birot- 
teau  was  an  accepted  lover  when  he  swooned  with  hap 
piness  :  but  many  an  officer  has  been  cashiered,  and 
many  a  suitor  has  been  rejected,  because  the  centre  of 


236  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

inhibition  has  got  the  upper  hand  of  the  centre  of 
stimulation. 

"  In  the  well-known  cases  of  deadly  antipathy  which 
have  been  recorded,  the  most  frequent  cause  has  been 
the  disturbed  and  depressing  influence  of  the  centre 
of  inhibition.  Fainting  at  the  sight  of  blood  is  one  of 
the  commonest  examples  of  this  influence.  A  single 
impression,  in  a  very  early  period  of  atmospheric  ex 
istence,  —  perhaps,  indirectly,  before  that  period,  as 
was  said  to  have  happened  in  the  case  of  James  the 
First  of  England,  —  may  establish  a  communication 
between  this  centre  and  the  heart  which  will  remain 
open  ever  afterwards.  How  does  a  footpath  across  a 
field  establish  itself  ?  Its  curves  are  arbitrary,  and 
what  we  call  accidental,  but  one  after  another  follows 
it  as  if  he  were  guided  by  a  chart  on  which  it  was  laid 
down.  So  it  is  with  this  dangerous  transit  between 
the  centre  of  inhibition  and  the  great  organ  of  life. 
If  once  the  path  is  opened  by  the  track  of  some  pro 
found  impression,  that  same  impression,  if  repeated, 
or  a  similar  one,  is  likely  to  find  the  old  footmarks 
and  follow  them.  Habit  only  makes  the  path  easier 
to  traverse,  and  thus  the  unreasoning  terror  of  a  child, 
of  an  infant,  may  perpetuate  itself  in  a  timidity  which 
shames  the  manhood  of  its  subject. 

"  The  case  before  us  is  an  exceptional  and  most  re 
markable  example  of  the  effect  of  inhibition  on  the 
heart. 

"  We  will  not  say  that  we  believe  it  to  be  unique  in 
the  history  of  the  human  race  ;  on  the  contrary,  we 
do  not  doubt  that  there  have  been  similar  cases,  and 
that  in  some  rare  instances  sudden  death  has  been  the 
consequence  of  seizures  like  that  of  the  subject  of  this 
Report.  The  case  most  like  it  is  that  of  Colonel 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  237 

Townsend,  which  is  too  well  known  to  require  any 
lengthened  description  in  this  paper.  It  is  enough  to 
recall  the  main  facts.  He  could  by  a  voluntary  effort 
suspend  the  action  of  his  heart  for  a  considerable  pe 
riod,  during  which  he  lay  like  one  dead,  pulseless,  and 
without  motion.  After  a  time  the  circulation  returned, 
and  he  does  not  seem  to  have  been  the  worse  for  his 
dangerous,  or  seemingly  dangerous,  experiment.  But 
in  his  case  it  was  by  an  act  of  the  will  that  the  heart's 
action  was  suspended.  In  the  case  before  us  it  is  an 
involuntary  impulse  transmitted  from  the  brain  to  the 
inhibiting  centre,  which  arrests  the  cardiac  move 
ments. 

"  What  is  like  to  be  the  further  history  of  the  case  ? 

"  The  subject  of  this  anomalous  affliction  is  now 
more  than  twenty  years  old.  The  chain  of  nervous 
actions  has  become  firmly  established.  It  might  have 
been  hoped  that  the  changes  of  adolescence  would  have 
effected  a  transformation  of  the  perverted  instinct. 
On  the  contrary,  the  whole  force  of  this  instinct  throws 
itself  on  the  centre  of  inhibition,  instead  of  quickening 
the  heart-beats,  and  sending  the  rush  of  youthful  blood 
with  fresh  life  through  the  entire  system  to  the  throb 
bing  finger-tips. 

"  Is  it  probable  that  time  and  circumstances  will 
alter  a  habit  of  nervous  interactions  so  long  estab 
lished?  We  are  disposed  to  think  that  there  is  a 
chance  of  its  being  broken  up.  And  we  are  not  afraid 
to  say  that  we  suspect  the  old  gypsy  woman,  whose 
prophecy  took  such  hold  of  the  patient's  imagination, 
has  hit  upon  the  way  in  which  the  '  spell,'  as  she  called 
it,  is  to  be  dissolved.  She  must,  in  all  probability, 
have  had  a  hint  of  the  '  antipatia '  to  which  the  youth 
before  her  was  a  victim,  and  its  cause,  and  if  so,  her 


238  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

guess  as  to  the  probable  mode  in  which  the  young 
man  would  obtain  relief  from  his  unfortunate  condi 
tion  was  the  one  which  would  naturally  suggest  itself. 

"  If  once  the  nervous  impression  which  falls  on  the 
centre  of  inhibition  can  be  made  to  change  its  course, 
so  as  to  follow  its  natural  channel,  it  will  probably 
keep  to  that  channel  ever  afterwards.  And  this  will, 
it  is  most  likely,  be  effected  by  some  sudden,  unex 
pected  impression.  If  he  were  drowning,  and  a  young 
woman  should  rescue  him,  it  is  by  no  means  impossi 
ble  that  the  change  in  the  nervous  current  we  have  re 
ferred  to  might  be  brought  about  as  rapidly,  as  easily, 
as  the  reversal  of  the  poles  in  a  magnet,  which  is  ef 
fected  in  an  instant.  But  he  cannot  be  expected  to 
throw  himself  into  the  water  just  at  the  right  moment 
when  the  '  fair  lady '  of  the  gitana's  prophecy  is  pass 
ing  on  the  shore.  Accident  may  effect  the  cure  which 
art  seems  incompetent  to  perform.  It  would  not  be 
strange  if  in  some  future  seizure  he  should  never  come 
back  to  consciousness.  But  it  is  quite  conceivable,  on 
the  other  hand,  that  a  happier  event  may  occur,  — 
that  in  a  single  moment  the  nervous  polarity  may  be 
reversed,  the  whole  course  of  his  life  changed,  and  his 
past  terrible  experiences  be  to  him  like  a  scarce-re 
membered  dream. 

"  This  is  one  of  those  cases  in  which  it  is  very  hard 
to  determine  the  wisest  course  to  be  pursued.  The 
question  is  not  unlike  that  which  arises  in  certain 
cases  of  dislocation  of  the  bones  of  the  neck.  Shall 
the  unfortunate  sufferer  go  all  his  days  with  his  face 
turned  far  round  to  the  right  or  the  left,  or  shall  an 
attempt  be  made  to  replace  the  dislocated  bones?  — 
an  attempt  which  may  succeed,  or  may  cause  instant 
death.  The  patient  must  be  consulted  as  to  whetKer 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  239 

he  will  take  the  chance.  The  practitioner  may  be  un 
willing  to  risk  it,  if  the  patient  consents.  Each  case 
must  be  judged  on  its  own  special  grounds.  We  can 
not  think  that  this  young  man  is  doomed  to  perpetual 
separation  from  the  society  of  womanhood  during  the 
period  of  its  bloom  and  attraction.  But  to  provoke 
another  seizure  after  his  past  experiences  would  be  too 
much  like  committing  suicide.  We  fear  that  we  must 
trust  to  the  chapter  of  accidents.  The  strange  malady 
—  for  such  it  is  —  has  become  a  second  nature,  and 
may  require  as  energetic  a  shock  to  displace  it  as  it 
did  to  bring  it  into  existence.  Time  alone  can  solve 
this  question,  on  which  depends  the  well-being  and,  it 
may  be,  the  existence  of  a  young  man  every  way  fitted 
to  be  happy,  and  to  give  happiness,  if  restored  to  his 
true  nature." 


XX. 

DR.    BUTTS   REFLECTS. 

DR.  BUTTS  sat  up  late  at  night  reading  these  papers 
and  reflecting  upon  them.  He  was  profoundly  im 
pressed  and  tenderly  affected  by  the  entire  frankness, 
the  absence  of  all  attempt  at  concealment,  which  Mau 
rice  showed  in  placing  these  papers  at  his  disposal. 
He  believed  that  his  patient  would  recover  from  this 
illness  for  which  he  had  been  taking  care  of  him.  He 
thought  deeply  and  earnestly  of  what  he  could  do  for 
him  after  he  should  have  regained  his  health  and 
strength. 

There  were  references,  in  Maurice's  own  account  of 
himself,  which  the  doctor  called  to  mind  with  great 
interest  after  reading  his  brief  autobiography.  Some 
one  person  —  some  young  woman,  it  must  be  —  had 
produced  a  singular  impression  upon  him  since  those 
earlier  perilous  experiences  through  which  he  had 
passed.  The  doctor  could  not  help  thinking  of  that 
meeting  with  Euthymia  of  which  she  had  spoken  to 
him.  Maurice,  as  she  said,  turned  pale,  —  he  clapped 
his  hand  to  his  breast.  He  might  have  done  so  if 
he  had  met  her  chambermaid,  or  any  straggling  dam 
sel  of  the  village.  But  Euthymia  was  not  a  young 
woman  to  be  looked  upon  with  indifference.  She 
held  herself  like  a  queen,  and  walked  like  one, — 
not  a  stage  queen,  but  one  born  and  bred  to  self-re 
liance,  and  command  of  herself  as  well  as  others.  One 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  241 

could  not  pass  her  without  being  struck  with  her  noble 
bearing  and  spirited  features.  If  she  had  known  how 
Maurice  trembled  as  he  looked  upon  her,  in  that  con 
flict  of  attraction  and  uncontrollable  dread,  —  if  she 
had  known  it !  But  what,  even  then,  could  she  have 
done  ?  Nothing  but  get  away  from  him  as  fast  as  she 
could.  As  it  was,  it  was  a  long  time  before  his  agi 
tation  subsided,  and  his  heart  beat  with  its  common 
force  and  frequency. 

Dr.  Butts  was  not  a  male  gossip  nor  a  match-mak 
ing  go-between.  But  he  could  not  help  thinking  what 
a  pity  it  was  that  these  two  young  persons  could  not 
come  together  as  other  young  people  do  in  the  pairing 
season,  and  find  out  whether  they  carei  for  and  were 
fitted  for  each  other.  He  did  not  pretend  to  settle 
this  question  in  his  own  mind,  but  the  thought  was  a 
natural  one.  And  here  was  a  gulf  between  them  as 
deep  and  wide  as  that  between  Lazarus  and  Dives. 
Would  it  ever  be  bridged  over?  This  thought  took 
possession  of  the  doctor's  mind,  and  he  imagined  all 
sorts  of  ways  of  effecting  some  experimental  approxi 
mation  between  Maurice  and  Euthymia.  From  this 
delicate  subject  he  glanced  off  to  certain  general  con 
siderations  suggested  by  the  extraordinary  history  he 
had  been  reading.  He  began  by  speculating  as  to  the 
possibility  of  the  personal  presence  of  an  individual 
making  itself  perceived  by  some  channel  other  than 
any  of  the  five  senses.  The  study  of  the  natural  sci 
ences  teaches  those  who  are  devoted  to  them  that  the 
most  insigniriaant  facts  may  lead  the  way  to  the  discov 
ery  of  the  most  important,  all-pervading  laws  of  the 
universe.  From  the  kick  of  a  frog's  hind  leg  to  the 
amazing  triumphs  which  began  with  that  seemingly 
trivial  incident  is  a  long,  a  very  long  stride.  If 

16 


242  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Madam  Galvani  had  not  been  in  delicate  health,  which 
was  the  occasion  of  her  having  some  frog-broth  pre 
pared  for  her,  the  world  of  to-day  might  not  be  in 
possession  of  the  electric  telegraph  and  the  light  which 
blazes  like  the  sun  at  high  noon.  A  common-looking 
occurrence,  one  seemingly  unimportant,  which  had 
hitherto  passed  unnoticed  with  the  ordinary  course  of 
things,  was  the  means  of  introducing  us  to  a  new  and 
vast  realm  of  closely  related  phenomena.  It  was  like 
a  key  that  we  might  have  picked  up,  looking  so  simple 
that  it  could  hardly  fit  any  lock  but  one  of  like  sim 
plicity,  but  which  should  all  at  once  throw  back  the 
bolts  of  the  one  lock  which  had  defied  the  most  ingen 
ious  of  our  complex  implements  and  open  our  way  into 
a  hitherto  unexplored  territory. 

It  certainly  was  not  through  the  eye  alone  that 
Maurice  felt  the  paralyzing  influence.  He  could  con 
template  Euthymia  from  a  distance,  as  he  did  on  the 
day  of  the  boat-race,  without  any  nervous  disturbance. 
A  certain  proximity  was  necessary  for  the  influence  to 
be  felt,  as  in  the  case  of  magnetism  and  electricity. 
An  atmosphere  of  danger  surrounded  every  woman  he 
approached  during  the  period  when  her  sex  exercises 
its  most  powerful  attractions.  How  far  did  that  at 
mosphere  extend,  and  through  what  channel  did  it 
act? 

The  key  to  the  phenomena  of  this  case,  he  believed, 
was  to  be  found  in  a  fact  as  humble  as  that  which 
gave  birth  to  the  science  of  galvanism  and  its  practical 
applications.  The  circumstances  connected  with  the 
very  common  antipathy  to  cats  were  as  remarkable  in 
many  points  of  view  as  the  similar  circumstances  in 
the  case  of  Maurice  Kirkwood.  The  subjects  of  that 
antipathy  could  not  tell  what  it  was  which  disturbed 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  243 

their  nervous  system.  All  they  knew  was  that  a  sense 
of  uneasiness,  restlessness,  oppression,  came  over  them 
in  the  presence  of  one  of  these  animals.  He  remem 
bered  the  fact  already  mentioned,  that  persons  sensi 
tive  to  this  impression  can  tell  by  their  feelings  if  a 
cat  is  concealed  in  the  apartment  in  which  they  may 
happen  to  be.  It  may  be  through  some  emanation. 
It  may  be  through  the  medium  of  some  electrical  dis 
turbance.  What  if  the  nerve-thrills  passing  through 
the  whole  system  of  the  animal  propagate  themselves 
to  a  certain  distance  without  any  more  regard  to  inter 
vening  solids  than  is  shown  by  magnetism?  A  sievo 
lets  sand  pass  through  it ;  a  filter  arrests  sand,  but  lets 
fluids  pass  ;  glass  holds  fluids,  but  lets  light  through ; 
wood  shuts  out  light,  but  magnetic  attraction  goes 
through  it  as  sand  went  through  the  sieve.  No  good 
reasons  can  be  given  why  the  presence  of  a  cat  should 
not  betray  itself  to  certain  organizations,  at  a  distance, 
through  the  walls  of  a  box  in  which  the  animal  is  shut 
up.  We  need  not  disbelieve  the  stories  which  allege 
such  an  occurrence  as  a  fact  and  a  not  very  infrequent 
one. 

If  the  presence  of  a  cat  can  produce  its  effects 
under  these  circumstances,  why  should  not  that  of  a 
human  being  under  similar  conditions,  acting  on  cer 
tain  constitutions,  exercise  its  specific  influence  ?  The 
doctor  recalled  a  story  told  him  by  one  of  his  friends, 
a  story  which  the  friend  himself  heard  from  the  lips 
of  the  distinguished  actor,  the  late  Mr.  Fechter.  The 
actor  maintained  that  Rachel  had  no  genius  as  an 
actress.  It  was  all  Samson's  training  and  study,  ac 
cording  to  him,  which  explained  the  secret  of  her  won . 
derful  effectiveness  on  the  stage.  But  magnetism,  he 
said,  —  magnetism,  she  was  full  of.  He  declared  that 


244  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

he  was  made  aware  of  her  presence  on  the  stage,  when 
he  could  not  see  her  or  know  of  her  presence  other 
wise,  by  this  magnetic  emanation.  The  doctor  took 
the  story  for  what  it  was  worth.  There  might  very 
probably  be  exaggeration,  perhaps  high  imaginative 
coloring  about  it,  but  it  was  not  a  whit  more  unlikely 
than  the  cat-stories,  accepted  as  authentic.  He  con 
tinued  this  train  of  thought  into  further  develop 
ments.  Into  this  series  of  reflections  we  will  try  to 
follow  him. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  the  halo  with  which  artists 
have  surrounded  the  heads  of  their  pictured  saints,  — 
of  the  aureola  which  wraps  them  like  a  luminous 
cloud  ?  Is  it  not  a  recognition  of  the  fact  that  these 
holy  personages  diffuse  their  personality  in  the  form 
of  a  visible  emanation,  which  reminds  us  of  Milton's 
definition  of  light :  — 

"Bright  effluence  of  bright  essence  increate  "  ? 

The  common  use  of  the  term  influence  would  seem 
to  imply  the  existence  of  its  correlative,  effluence. 
There  is  no  good  reason  that  I  can  see,  the  doctor  said 
to  himself,  why  among  the  forces  which  work  upon 
the  nervous  centres  there  should  not  be  one  which 
acts  at  various  distances  from  its  source.  It  may  not 
be  visible  like  the  "glory"  of  the  painters,  it  may 
not  be  appreciable  by  any  one  of  the  five  senses,  and 
yet  it  may  be  felt  by  the  person  reached  by  it  as  much 
as  if  it  were  a  palpable  presence,  —  more  powerfully, 
perhaps,  from  the  mystery  which  belongs  to  its  mode 
of  action. 

Why  should  not  Maurice  have  been  rendered  rest 
less  and  anxious  by  the  unseen  nearness  of  a  young 
woman  who  was  in  the  next  room  to  him,  just  as  the 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

persons  who  have  the  dread  of  cats  are  made  conscious 
of  their  presence  through  some  unknown  channel? 
Is  it  anything  strange  that  the  larger  and  more  pow 
erful  organism  should  diffuse  a  consciousness  of  its 
presence  to  some  distance  as  well  as  the  slighter  and 
feebler  one  ?  Is  it  strange  that  this  mysterious  in 
fluence  or  effluence  should  belong  especially  or  exclu 
sively  to  the  period  of  complete  womanhood  in  distinc 
tion  from  that  of  immaturity  or  decadence  ?  On  the 
contrary,  it  seems  to  be  in  accordance  with  all  the 
analogies  of  nature,  —  analogies  too  often  cruel  in  the 
sentence  they  pass  upon  the  human  female. 

Among  the  many  curious  thoughts  which  came  up 
in  the  doctor's  mind  was  this,  which  made  him  smile 
as  if  it  were  a  jest,  but  which  he  felt  very  strongly 
had  its  serious  side,  and  was  involved  with  the  hap 
piness  or  suffering  of  multitudes  of  youthful  persons 
who  die  without  telling  their  secret :  — 

How  many  young  men  have  a  mortal  fear  of 
woman,  as  woman,  which  they  never  overcome,  and  in 
consequence  of  which  the  attraction  which  draws  man 
towards  her,  as  strong  in  them  as  in  others,  —  often 
times,  in  virtue  of  their  peculiarly  sensitive  organiza 
tions,  more  potent  in  them  than  in  others  of  like  age 
and  conditions,  —  in  consequence  of  which  fear,  this 
attraction  is  completely  neutralized,  and  all  the  possi 
bilities  of  doubled  and  indefinitely  extended  life  de 
pending  upon  it  are  left  unrealized !  Think  what  num 
bers  of  young  men  in  Catholic  countries  devote  them 
selves  to  lives  of  celibacy.  Think  how  many  young 
men  lose  all  their  confidence  in  the  presence  of  the 
young  woman  to  whom  they  are  most  attracted,  and  at 
last  steal  away  from  a  companionship  which  it  is  rap 
ture  to  dream  of  and  torture  to  endure,  so  does  the 


246  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

presence  of  the  beloved  object  paralyze  all  the  powers 
of  expression.  Sorcerers  have  in  all  time  and  coun 
tries  played  on  the  hopes  and  terrors  of  lovers.  Once 
let  loose  a  strong  impulse  on  the  centre  of  inhibition, 
and  the  warrior  who  had  faced  bayonets  and  batteries 
becomes  a  coward  whom  the  well-dressed  hero  of  the 
ball-room  and  leader  of  the  German  will  put  to  igno 
minious  flight  in  five  minutes  of  easy,  audacious  famil 
iarity  with  his  lady-love. 

Yes,  the  doctor  went  on  with  his  reflections,  I  do 
not  know  that  I  have  seen  the  term  Gynophobia  be 
fore  I  opened  this  manuscript,  but  I  have  seen  the 
malady  many  times.  Only  one  word  has  stood  be 
tween  many  a  pair  of  young  people  and  their  lifelong 
happiness,  and  that  word  has  got  as  far  as  the  lips,  — 
but  the  lips  trembled  and  would  not,  could  not,  shape 
that  little  word.  All  young  women  are  not  like  Cole 
ridge's  Genevieve,  who  knew  how  to  help  her  lover  out 
of  his  difficulty,  and  said  yes  before  lie  had  asked  for 
an  answer.  So  the  wave  which  was  to  have  wafted 
them  on  to  the  shore  of  Elysium  has  just  failed  of 
landing  them,  and  back  they  have  been  drawn  into 
the  desolate  ocean  to  meet  no  more  on  earth. 

Love  is  the  master-key,  he  went  on  thinking,  — 
love  is  the  master-key  that  opens  the  gates  of  happi 
ness,  of  hatred,  of  jealousy,  and,  most  easily  of  all,  the 
gate  of  fear.  How  terrible  is  the  one  fact  of  beauty ! 
—  not  only  the  historic  wonder  of  beauty,  that  "  burnt 
the  topless  towers  of  Ilium  "  for  the  smile  of  Helen, 
and  fired  the  palaces  of  Babylon  by  the  hand  of  Thais, 
but  the  beauty  which  springs  up  in  all  times  and 
places,  and  carries  a  torch  and  wears  a  serpent  for  a 
wreath  as  truly  as  any  of  the  Eumenides.  Paint 
Beauty  with  her  foot  upon  a  skull  and  a  dragon  coiled 
around  her. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  247 

The  doctor  smiled  at  his  own  imposing  classical  al 
lusions  and  pictorial  imagery.  Drifting  along  from 
thought  to  thought,  he  reflected  on  the  probable  con 
sequences  of  the  general  knowledge  of  Maurice  Kirk- 
wood's  story,  if  it  came  before  the  public. 

What  a  piece  of  work  it  would  make  among  the 
lively  youths  of  the  village,  to  be  sure !  What  scoff 
ing,  what  ridicule,  what  embellishments,  what  fables, 
would  follow  in  the  trail  of  the  story !  If  the  Inter 
viewer  got  hold  of  it,  how  "  The  People's  Perennial 
and  Household  Inquisitor  "  would  blaze  with  capitals 
in  its  next  issue !  The  young  fellows  of  the  place 
would  be  disposed  to  make  fun  of  the  whole  matter. 
The  young  girls  —  the  doctor  hardly  dared  to  think 
what  would  happen  when  the  story  got  about  among 
them.  "  The  Sachem  "  of  the  solitary  canoe,  the  bold 
horseman,  the  handsome  hermit,  —  handsome  so  far 
as  the  glimpses  they  had  got  of  him  went,  —  must 
needs  be  an  object  of  tender  interest  among  them, 
now  that  he  was  ailing,  suffering,  in  danger  of  his  life, 
away  from  friends,  —  poor  fellow !  Little  tokens  of 
their  regard  had  reached  his  sick-chamber;  bunches 
of  flowers  with  dainty  little  notes,  some  of  them  pink 
ish,  some  three-cornered,  some  of  them  with  brief  mes 
sages,  others  "  criss-crossed,"  were  growing  more  fre 
quent  as  it  was  understood  that  the  patient  was  likely 
to  be  convalescent  before  many  days  had  passed.  If 
it  should  come  to  be  understood  that  there  was  a 
deadly  obstacle  to  their  coming  into  any  personal  re 
lations  with  him,  the  doctor  had  his  doubts  whether 
there  were  not  those  who  would  subject  him  to  the 
risk ;  for  there  were  coquettes  in  the  village,  —  stran 
gers,  visitors,  let  us  hope,  —  who  would  sacrifice  any 
thing  or  anybody  to  their  vanity  and  love  of  conquest. 


XXI. 

AN  INTIMATE    CONVERSATION. 

THE  illness  from  which  Maurice  had  suffered  left 
him  in  a  state  of  profound  prostration.  The  doctor, 
who  remembered  the  extreme  danger  of  any  over-exer 
tion  in  such  cases,  hardly  allowed  him  to  lift  his  head 
from  the  pillow.  But  his  mind  was  gradually  recov 
ering  its  balance,  and  he  was  able  to  hold  some  con 
versation  with  those  about  him.  His  faithful  Paolo 
had  grown  so  thin  in  waiting  upon  him  and  watching 
with  him  that  the  village  children  had  to  take  a  second 
look  at  his  face  when  they  passed  him  to  make  sure 
that  it  was  indeed  their  old  friend  and  no  other.  But 
as  his  master  advanced  towards  convalescence  and  the 
doctor  assured  him  that  he  was  going  in  all  probability 
to  get  well,  Paolo's  face  began  to  recover  something  of 
its  old  look  and  expression,  and  once  more  his  pockets 
filled  themselves  with  comfits  for  his  little  circle  of 
worshipping  three  and  four  year  old  followers. 

"  How  is  Mr.  Kirkwood  ?  "  was  the  question  with 
which  he  was  always  greeted.  In  the  worst  periods  of 
the  fever  he  rarely  left  his  master.  When  he  did,  and 
the  qiiestion  was  put  to  him,  he  would  shake  his  head 
sadly,  sometimes  without  a  word,  sometimes  with  tears 
and  sobs  and  faltering  words,  —  more  like  a  broken 
hearted  child  than  a  stalwart  man  as  he  was,  such  a 
man  as  soldiers  are  made  of  in  the  great  Continental 
armies. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  249 

"  He  very  bad,  —  he  no  eat  nothing,  —  he  no  say 
nothing,  —  he  never  be  no  better,"  and  all  his  South 
ern  nature  betrayed  itself  in  a  passionate  burst  of  lam 
entation.  But  now  that  he  began  to  feel  easy  about 
his  master,  his  ready  optimism  declared  itself  no  less 
transparently. 

"  He  better  every  day  now.  He  get  well  in  few 
weeks,  sure.  You  see  him  on  hoss  in  little  while." 
The  kind-hearted  creature's  life  was  bound  up  in  that 
of  his  "  master,"  as  he  loved  to  call  him,  in  sovereign 
disregard  of  the  comments  of  the  natives,  who  held 
themselves  too  high  for  any  such  recognition  of  an 
other  as  their  better.  They  could  not  understand  how 
he,  so  much  their  superior  in  bodily  presence,  in  air  and 
manner,  could  speak  of  the  man  who  employed  him 
in  any  other  way  than  as  "  Kirkwood,"  without  even 
demeaning  himself  so  far  as  to  prefix  a  "  Mr."  to  it. 
But  "  my  master  "  Maurice  remained  for  Paolo  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  all  men  are  born  free  and  equal.  And 
never  was  a  servant  more  devoted  to  a  master  than 
was  Paolo  to  Maurice  during  the  days  of  doubt  and 
danger.  Since  his  improvement  Maurice  insisted  upon 
his  leaving  his  chamber  and  getting  out  of  the  house, 
so  as  to  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  which  he  was  in  so 
much  need.  It  worried  him  to  see  his  servant  return 
ing  after  too  short  an  absence.  The  attendant  who 

o 

had  helped  him  in  the  care  of  the  patient  was  within 
call,  and  Paolo  was  almost  driven  out  of  the  house  by 
the  urgency  of  his  master's  command  that  he  should 
take  plenty  of  exercise  in  the  open  air. 

Notwithstanding  the  fact  of  Maurice's  improved  con 
dition,  although  the  force  of  the  disease  had  spent  it 
self,  the  state  of  weakness  to  which  he  had  been  re 
duced  was  a  cause  of  some  anxiety,  and  required  great 


250  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

precautions  to  be  taken.  He  lay  in  bed,  wasted,  en 
feebled  to  such  a  degree  that  he  had  to  be  cared  for 
very  much  as  a  child  is  tended.  Gradually  his  voice 
was  coming  back  to  him,  so  that  he  could  hold  some 
conversation,  as  was  before  "mentioned,  with  those 
about  him.  The  doctor  waited  for  the  right  moment 
to  make  mention  of  the  manuscript  which  Maurice 
had  submitted  to  him.  Up  to  this  time,  although  it 
had  been  alluded  to  and  the  doctor  had  told  him  of 
the  intense  interest  with  which  he  had  read  it,  he  had 
never  ventured  to  make  it  the  subject  of  any  long  talk, 
such  as  would  be  liable  to  fatigue  his  patient.  But 
now  he  thought  the  time  had  come. 

"  I  have  been  thinking,"  the  doctor  said,  "  of  the 
singular  seizures  to  which  you  are  liable,  and  as  it  is 
my  business  not  merely  to  think  about  such  cases,  but 
to  do  what  I  can  to  help  any  who  may  be  capable  of 
receiving  aid  from  my  art,  I  wish  to  have  some  addi 
tional  facts  about  your  history.  And  in  the  first  place, 
will  you  allow  me  to  ask  what  led  you  to  this  particu 
lar  place  ?  It  is  so  much  less  known  to  the  public  at 
large  than  many  other  resorts  that  we  naturally  ask, 
What  brings  this  or  that  new  visitor  among  us  ?  We 
have  no  ill-tasting,  natural  spring  of  bad  water  to  be 
analyzed  by  the  state  chemist  and  proclaimed  as  a  spe 
cific.  We  have  no  great  gambling-houses,  no  race 
course  (except  that  for  boats  on  the  lake);  we  have  no 
coaching-club,  no  great  balls,  few  lions  of  any  kind,  — 
so  we  ask,  What  brings  this  or  that  stranger  here? 
And  I  think  I  may  venture  to  ask  you  whether  any 
special  motive  brought  you  among  us,  or  whether  it 
was  accident  that  determined  your  coming  to  this 
place." 

"  Certainly,  doctor,"  Maurice  answered,  "  I  will  tell 


A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY.  251 

you  with  great  pleasure.  Last  year  I  passed  on  the 
border  of  a  great  river.  The  year  before  I  lived  in  a 
lonely  cottage  at  the  side  of  the  ocean.  I  wanted  this 
year  to  be  by  a  lake.  You  heard  the  paper  read  at 
the  meeting  of  your  society,  or  at  least  you  heard  of  it, 
—  for  such  matters  are  always  talked  over  in  a  village 
like  this.  You  can  judge  by  that  paper,  or  could,  if  it 
were  before  you,  of  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  I  came 
here.  I  was  tired  of  the  sullen  indifference  of  the 
ocean  and  the  babbling  egotism  of  the  river,  always 
hurrying  along  on  its  own  private  business.  I  wanted 
the  dreamy  stillness  of  a  large,  tranquil  sheet  of  water 
that  had  nothing  in  particular  to  do,  and  would  leave 
me  to  myself  and  my  thoughts.  I  had  read  some 
where  about  the  place,  and  the  old  Anchor  Tavern, 
with  its  paternal  landlord  and  motherly  landlady  and 
old-fashioned  household,  and  that,  though  it  was  no 
longer  open  as  a  tavern,  I  could  find  a  resting-place 
there  early  in  the  season,  at  least  for  a  few  days,  while 
I  looked  about  me  for  a  quiet  place  in  which  I  might 
pass  my  summer.  I  have  found  this  a  pleasant  resi 
dence.  By  being  up  early  and  out  late  I  have  kept 
myself  mainly  in  the  solitude  which  has  become  my 
enforced  habit  of  life.  The  season  has  gone  by  too 
swiftly  for  me  since  my  dream  has  become  a  vision." 

The  doctor  was  sitting  with  his  hand  round  Mau 
rice's  wrist,  three  fingers  on  his  pulse.  As  he  spoke 
these  last  words  he  noticed  that  the  pulse  fluttered  a 
little,  —  beat  irregularly  a  few  times ;  intermitted ; 
became  feeble  and  thready ;  while  his  cheek  grew 
whiter  than  the  pallid  bloodlessness  of  his  long  illness 
had  left  it. 

"No  more  talk,  now,"  he  said.  "  You  are  too  tired 
to  be  using  your  voice.  I  will  hear  all  the  rest  an 
other  time." 


252  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

The  doctor  had  interrupted  Maurice  at  an  interest 
ing  point.  What  did  he  mean  by  saying  that  his 
dream  had  become  a  vision  ?  This  is  what  the  doctor 
was  naturally  curious,  and  professionally  anxious,  to 
know.  But  his  hand  was  still  on  his  patient's  pulse, 
which  told  him  unmistakably  that  the  heart  had  taken 
the  alarm  and  was  losing  its  energy  under  the  depress 
ing  nervous  influence.  Presently,  however,  it  recov 
ered  its  natural  force  and  rhythm,  and  a  faint  flush 
came  back  to  the  pale  cheek.  The  doctor  remembered 
the  story  of  Galen,  and  the  young  maiden  whose  com 
plaint  had  puzzled  the  physicians. 

The  next  day  his  patient  was  well  enough  to  enter 
once  more  into  conversation. 

"  You  said  something  about  a  dream  of  yours  which 
had  become  a  vision,"  said  the  doctor,  with  his  fingers 
on  his  patient's  wrist,  as  before.  He  felt  the  artery 
leap,  under  his  pressure,  falter  a  little,  stop,  then  be 
gin  again,  growing  fuller  in  its  beat.  The  heart  had 
felt  the  pull  of  the  bridle,  but  the  spur  had  roused  it 
to  swift  reaction. 

"  You  know  the  story  of  my  past  life,  doctor,"  Mau 
rice  answered  ;  "  and  I  will  tell  you  what  is  the  vision 
which  has  taken  the  place  of  my  dreams.  You  re 
member  the  boat-race  ?  I  watched  it  from  a  distance, 
but  I  held  a  powerful  opera-glass  in  my  hand,  which 
brought  the  whole  crew  of  the  young  ladies'  boat  so 
close  £o  me  that  I  could  see  the  features,  the  figures, 
the  movements,  of  every  one  of  the  rowers.  I  saw  the 
little  coxswain  fling  her  bouquet  in  the  track  of  the 
other  boat,  —  you  remember  how  the  race  was  lost  and 
won,  —  but  I  saw  one  face  among  those  young  girls 
which  drew  me  away  from  all  the  rest.  It  was  that  of 
the  young  lady  who  pulled  the  bow  oar,  the  captain  of 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  253 

the  boat's  crew.  I  have  since  learned  her  name,  — 
you  know  it  well,  —  I  need  not  name  her.  Since  that 
day  I  have  had  many  distant  glimpses  of  her ;  and 
once  I  met  her  so  squarely  that  the  deadly  sensation 
came  over  me,  and  I  felt  that  in  another  moment  I 
should  fall  senseless  at  her  feet.  But  she  passed  on 
her  way  and  I  on  mine,  and  the  spasm  which  had 
clutched  my  heart  gradually  left  it,  and  I  was  as  well 
as  before.  You  know  that  young  lady,  doctor  ?  " 

"  I  do  ;  and  she  is  a  very  noble  creature.  You  are 
not  the  first  young  man  who  has  been  fascinated, 
almost  at  a  glance,  by  Miss  Euthymia  Tower.  And 
she  is  well  worth  knowing  more  intimately." 

The  doctor  gave  him  a  full  account  of  the  young 
lady,  of  her  early  days,  her  character,  her  accomplish 
ments.  To  all  this  he  listened  devoutly,  and  when 
the  doctor  left  him  he  said  to  himself,  — 

"  I  will  see  her  and  speak  with  her,  if  it  costs  me 
my  life." 


XXII. 

EUTHYMIA. 

"  THE  Wonder  "  of  the  Corinna  Institute  had  never 
willingly  made  a  show  of  her  gymnastic  accomplish 
ments.  Her  feats,  which  were  so  much  admired,  were 
only  her  natural  exercise.  Gradually  the  dumb-bells 
others  used  became  too  light  for  her,  the  ropes  she 
climbed  too  short,  the  clubs  she  exercised  with  seemed 
as  if  they  were  made  of  cork  instead  of  being  heavy 
wood,  and  all  the  tests  and  meters  of  strength  and 
agility  had  been  strained  beyond  the  standards  which 
the  records  of  the  school  had  marked  as  their  historic 
maxima.  It  was  not  her  fault  that  she  broke  a  dy 
namometer  one  day ;  she  apologized  for  it,  but  the 
teacher  said  he  wished  he  could  have  a  dozen  broken 
every  year  in  the  same  way.  The  consciousness  of 
her  bodily  strength  had  made  her  very  careful  in  her 
movements.  The  pressure  of  her  hand  was  never  too 
hard  for  the  tenderest  little  maiden  whose  palm  was 
against  her  own.  So  far  from  priding  herself  on  her 
special  gifts,  she  was  disposed  to  be  ashamed  of  them. 
There  were  times  and  places  in  which  she  could  give 
full  play  to  her  muscles  without  fear  or  reproach. 
She  had  her  special  costume  for  the  boat  and  for  the 
woods.  She  would  climb  the  rugged  old  hemlocks 
now  and  then  for  the  sake  of  a  wide  outlook,  or  to 
peep  into  the  large  nest  where  a  hawk,  or  it  may  be 
an  eagle,  was  raising  her  little  brood  of  air-pirates. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  255 

There  were  those  who  spoke  of  her  wanderings  in 
lonely  places  as  an  unsafe  exposure.  One  sometimes 
met  doubtful  characters  about  the  neighborhood,  and 
stories  were  told  of  occurrences  which  might  well 
frighten  a  young  girl,  and  make  her  cautious  of  trust 
ing  herself  alone  in  the  wild  solitudes  which  surrounded 
the  little  village.  Those  who  knew  Euthymia  thought 
her  quite  equal  to  taking  care  of  herself.  Her  very 
look  was  enough  to  ensure  the  respect  of  any  vaga 
bond  who  might  cross  her  path,  and  if  matters  came 
to  the  worst  she  would  prove  as  dangerous  as  a  pan 
ther. 

But  it  was  a  pity  to  associate  this  class  of  thoughts 
with  a  noble  specimen  of  true  womanhood.  Health, 
beauty,  strength,  were  fine  qualities,  and  in  all  these 
she  was  rich.  She  enjoyed  all  her  natural  gifts,  and 
thought  little  about  them.  Unwillingly,  but  over- 
persuaded  by  some  of  her  friends,  she  had  allowed  her 
arm  and  hand  to  be  modelled.  The  artists  who  saw 
the  cast  wondered  if  it  would  be  possible  to  get  the 
bust  of  the  maiden  from  whom  it  was  taken.  Nobody 
would  have  dared  to  suggest  such  an  idea  to  her  ex 
cept  Lurida.  For  Lurida  sex  was  a  trifling  accident, 
to  be  disregarded  not  only  in  the  interests  of  human 
ity,  but  for  the  sake  of  art. 

"  It  is  a  shame,"  she  said  to  Euthymia,  "  that  you 
will  not  let  your  exquisitely  moulded  form  be  perpetu 
ated  in  marble.  You  have  no  right  to  withhold  such 
a  model  from  the  contemplation  of  your  fellow-crea 
tures.  Think  how  rare  it  is  to  see  a  woman  who  truly 
represents  the  divine  idea !  You  belong  to  your  race, 
and  not  to  yourself,  —  at  least,  your  beauty  is  a  gift 
not  to  be  considered  as  a  piece  of  private  property. 
Look  at  the  so-called  Venus  of  Milo.  Do  you  sup- 


256  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

pose  the  noble  woman  who  was  the  original  of  that  di 
vinely  chaste  statue  felt  any  scruple  about  allowing 
the  sculptor  to  reproduce  her  pure,  unblemished  per 
fections  ?  " 

Euthymia  was  always  patient  with  her  imaginative 
friend.  She  listened  to  her  eloquent  discourse,  but 
she  could  not  help  blushing,  used  as  she  was  to  Lu- 
rida's  audacities.  "  The  Terror's "  brain  had  run 
away  with  a  large  share  of  the  blood  which  ought  to 
have  gone  to  the  nourishment  of  her  general  system. 
She  could  not  help  admiring,  almost  worshipping,  a 
companion  whose  being  was  rich  in  the  womanly  de 
velopments  with  which  nature  had  so  economically  en 
dowed  herself.  An  impoverished  organization  carries 
with  it  certain  neutral  qualities  which  make  its  sub 
ject  appear,  in  the  presence  of  complete  manhood  and 
womanhood,  like  a  deaf-mute  among  speaking  persons. 
The  deep  blush  which  crimsoned  Euthymia's  cheek  at 
Lurida's  suggestion  was  in  a  strange  contrast  to  her 
own  undisturbed  expression.  There  was  a  range  of 
sensibilities  of  which  Lurida  knew  far  less  than  she 
did  of  those  many  and  difficult  studies  which  had  ab 
sorbed  her  vital  forces.  She  was  startled  to  see  what 
an  effect  her  proposal  had  produced,  for  Euthymia 
was  not  only  blushing,  but  there  was  a  flame  in  her 
eyes  which  she  had  hardly  ever  seen  before. 

"Is  this  only  your  own  suggestion?"  Euthymia 
said,  "  or  has  some  one  been  putting  the  idea  into  your 
head  ? "  The  truth  was  that  she  had  happened  to 
meet  the  Interviewer  at  the  Library,  one  day,  and  she 
was  offended  by  the  long,  searching  stare  with  which 
that  individual  had  honored  her.  It  occurred  to  her 
that  he,  or  some  such  visitor  to  the  place,  might  have 
spoken  of  her  to  Lurida,  or  to  some  other  person  who 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  257 

had  repeated  what  was  said  to  Lurida,  as  a  good  sub 
ject  for  the  art  of  the  sculptor,  and  she  felt  all  her 
maiden  sensibilities  offended  by  the  proposition.  Lu 
rida  could  not  understand  her  excitement,  but  she  was 
startled  by  it.  Natures  which  are  complementary  of 
each  other  are  liable  to  these  accidental  collisions  of 
feeling.  They  get  along  very  well  together,  none  the 
worse  for  their  differences,  until  all  at  once  the  tender 
spot  of  one  or  the  other  is  carelessly  handled  in  utter 
unconsciousness  on  the  part  of  the  aggressor,  and  the 
exclamation,  the  outcry,  or  the  explosion  explains  the 
situation  altogether  too  emphatically.  Such  scenes 
did  not  frequently  occur  between  the  two  friends,  and 
this  little  flurry  was  soon  over ;  but  it  served  to  warn 
Lurida  that  Miss  Euthymia  Tower  was  not  of  that 
class  of  self-conscious  beauties  who  would  be  ready  to 
dispute  the  empire  of  the  Venus  of  Milo  on  her  own 
ground,  in  defences  as  scanty  and  insufficient  as  those 
of  the  marble  divinity. 

Euthymia  had  had  admirers  enough,  at  a  distance, 
while  at  school,  and  in  the  long  vacations,  near  enough 
to  find  out  that  she  was  anything  but  easy  to  make 
love  to.  She  fairly  frightened  more  than  one  rash, 
youth  who  was  disposed  to  be  too  sentimental  in  her 
company.  They,  overdid  flattery,  which  she  was  used 
to  and  tolerated,  but  which  cheapened  the  admirer  in 
her  estimation,  and  now  and  then  betrayed  her  into 
an  expression  which  made  him  aware  of  the  fact,  and 
was  a  discouragement  to  aggressive  amiability.  The 
real  difficulty  was  that  not  one  of  her  adorers  had  ever 
greatly  interested  her.  It  could  not  be  that  nature 
had  made  her  insensible.  It  must  have  been  because 
the  man  who  was  made  for  her  had  never  yet  shown 
himself.  She  was  not  easy  to  please,  that  was  cer- 
17 


258  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

tain ;  and  she  was  one  of  those  young  women  who  will 
not  accept  as  a  lover  one  who  but  half  pleases  them. 
She  could  not  pick  up  the  first  stick  that  fell  in  her 
way  and  take  it  to  shape  her  ideal  out  of.  Many  of 
the  good  people  of  the  village  doubted  whether  Euthy- 
mia  would  ever  be  married. 

"  There  's  nothing  good  enough  for  her  in  this  vil 
lage,"  said  the  old  landlord  of  what  had  been  the  An 
chor  Tavern. 

"  She  must  wait  till  a  prince  comes  along,"  the  old 
landlady  said  in  reply.  "  She  'd  make  as  pretty  a 
queen  as  any  of  them  that 's  born  to  it.  Would  n't 
she  be  splendid  with  a  gold  crown  on  her  head,  and 
di'monds  a  glitterin'  all  over  her !  D'  you  remember 
how  handsome  she  looked  in  the  tableau,  when  the 
fair  was  held  for  the  Dorcas  Society  ?  She  had  on  an 
old  dress  of  her  grandma's,  —  they  don't  make  any 
thing  half  so  handsome  nowadays,  —  and  she  was  just 
as  pretty  as  a  pictur'.  But  what 's  the  use  of  good 
looks  if  they  scare  away  folks  ?  The  young  fellows 
think  that  such  a  handsome  girl  as  that  would  cost  ten 
times  as  much  to  keep  as  a  plain  one.  She  must  be 
dressed  up  like  an  empress,  —  so  they  seem  to  think. 
It  ain't  so  with  Euthymy :  she  'd  look  like  a  great  lady 
dressed  anyhow,  and  she  has  n't  got  any  more  notions 
than  the  homeliest  girl  that  ever  stood  before  a  glass 
to  look  at  herself." 

In  the  humbler  walks  of  Arrowhead  Village  society, 
similar  opinions  were  entertained  of  Miss  Euthymia. 
The  fresh-water  fisherman  represented  pretty  well  the 
average  estimate  of  the  class  to  which  he  belonged. 
"  I  tell  ye,"  said  he  to  another  gentleman  of  leisure, 
whose  chief  occupation  was  to  watch  the  coming  and 
going  of  the  visitors  to  Arrowhead  Village,  —  "I  tell 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  259 

ye  that  girl  ain't  a  gon  to  put  up  with  any  o'  them 
slab-sided  fellahs  that  you  see  hangin'  raound  to  look 
at  her  every  Sunday  when  she  comes  aout  o'  meetin'. 
Jt  's  one  o'  them  big  gents  from  Boston  or  New  York 
that  '11  step  up  an'  kerry  her  off." 

In  the  mean  time  nothing  could  be  further  from  the 
thoughts  of-  Euthymia  than  the  prospect  of  an  ambi 
tious  worldly  alliance.  The  ideals  of  young  women 
cost  them  many  and  great  disappointments,  but  they 
save  them  very  often  from  those  lifelong  companion 
ships  which  accident  is  constantly  trying  to  force 
upon  them,  in  spite  of  their  obvious  unfitness.  The 
higher  the  ideal,  the  less  likely  is  the  commonplace 
neighbor  who  has  the  great  advantage  of  easy  access, 
or  the  boarding-house  acquaintance  who  can  profit  by 
those  vacant  hours  when  the  least  interesting  of  visi 
tors  is  better  than  absolute  loneliness,  —  the  less  like 
ly  are  these  undesirable  personages  to  be  endured, 
pitied,  and,  if  not  embraced,  accepted,  for  want  of 
something  better.  Euthymia  found  so  much  pleasure 
in  the  intellectual  companionship  of  Lurida,  and  felt 
her  own  prudence  and  reserve  so  necessary  to  that 
independent  young  lady,  that  she  had  been  contented, 
so  far,  with  friendship,  and  thought  of  love  only  in  an 
abstract  sort  of  way.  Beneath  her  abstractions  there 
was  a  capacity  of  loving  which  might  have  been  in 
ferred  from  the  expression  of  her  features,  the  light 
that  shone  in  her  eyes,  the  tones  of  her  voice,  all  of 
which  were  full  of  the  language  which  belongs  to  sus 
ceptible  natures.  How  many  women  never  say  to 
themselves  that  they  were  born  to  love,  until  all  at 
once  the  discovery  opens  upon  them,  as  the  sense  that 
he  was  born  a  painter  is  said  to  have  dawned  sud 
denly  upon  Correggio ! 


260  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Like  all  the  rest  of  the  village  and  its  visitors,  she 
could  not  help  thinking  a  good  deal  about  the  young 
man  lying  ill  amongst  strangers.  She  was  not  one  of 
those  who  had  sent  him  the  three-cornered  notes  or 
even  a  bunch  of  flowers.  She  knew  that  he  was  re 
ceiving  abounding  tokens  of  kindness  and  sympathy 
from  different  quarters,  and  a  certain  inward  feeling 
restrained  her  from  joining  in  these  demonstrations. 
If  he  had  been  suffering  from  some  deadly  and  con 
tagious  malady  she  would  have  risked  her  life  to  help 
him,  without  a  thought  that  there  was  any  wonderful 
heroism  in  such  self-devotion.  Her  friend  Lurida 
might  have  been  capable  of  the  same  sacrifice,  but  it 
would  be  after  reasoning  with  herself  as  to  the  obliga 
tions  which  her  sense  of  human  rights  and  duties  laid 
upon  her,  and  fortifying  her  courage  with  the  mem 
ory  of  noble  deeds  recorded  of  women  in  ancient  and 
modern  history.  With  Euthymia  the  primary  human 
instincts  took  precedence  of  all  reasoning  or  reflection 
about  them.  All  her  sympathies  were  excited  by  the 
thought  of  this  forlorn  stranger  in  his  solitude,  but 
she  felt  the  impossibility  of  giving  any  complete  expres 
sion  to  them.  She  thought  of  Mungo  Park  in  the 
African  desert,  and  she  envied  the  poor  negress  who 
not  only  pitied  him,  but  had  the  blessed  opportunity 
of  helping  and  consoling  him.  How  near  were  these 
two  human  creatures,  each  needing  the  other !  How 
near  in  bodily  presence,  how  far  apart  in  their  lives, 
with  a  barrier  seemingly  impassable  between  them ! 


XXIII. 

THE  MEETING   OF  MAURICE  AND   EUTHTMIA. 

THESE  autumnal  fevers,  which  carry  off  a  large 
number  of  our  young  people  every  year,  are  treacher 
ous  and  deceptive  diseases.  Not  only  are  they  liable, 
as  has  been  mentioned,  to  various  accidental  complica 
tions  which  may  prove  suddenly  fatal,  but  too  often, 
after  convalescence  seems  to  be  established,  relapses 
occur  which  are  more  serious  than  the  disease  had  ap 
peared  to  be  in  its  previous  course.  One  morning  Dr. 
Butts  found  Maurice  worse  instead  of  better,  as  he  had 
hoped  and  expected  to  find  him.  Weak  as  he  was, 
there  was  every  reason  to  fear  the  issue  of  this  return 
of  his  threatening  symptoms.  There  was  not  much  to 
do  besides  keeping  up  the  little  strength  which  still 
remained.  It  was  all  needed. 

Does  the  reader  of  these  pages  ever  think  of  the 
work  a  sick  man  as  much  as  a  well  one  has  to  perform 
while  he  is  lying  on  his  back  and  taking  what  we  call 
his  "rest"?  More  than  a  thousand  times  an  hour, 
between  a  hundred  and  fifty  and  two  hundred  thousand 
times  a  week,  he  has  to  lift  the  bars  of  the  cage  in 
which  his  breathing  organs  are  confined,  to  save  him 
self  from  asphyxia.  Rest !  There  is  no  rest  until  the 
last  long  sigh  tells  those  who  look  upon  the  dying  that 
the  ceaseless  daily  task,  to  rest  from  which  is  death,  is 
at  last  finished.  We  are  all  galley-slaves,  pulling  at 
the  levers  of  respiration,  —  which,  rising  and  falling 


262  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

like  so  many  oars,  drive  us  across  an  unfathomable 
ocean  from  one  unknown  shore  to  another.  No! 
Never  was  a  galley-slave  so  chained  as  we  are  to  these 
four  and  twenty  oars,  at  which  we  must  tug  day  and 
night  all  our  life  long ! 

The  doctor  could  not  find  any  accidental  cause  to 
account  for  this  relapse.  It  presently  occurred  to  him 
that  there  might  be  some  local  source  of  infection 
which  had  brought  on  the  complaint,  and  was  still 
keeping  up  the  symptoms  which  were  the  ground  of 
alarm.  He  determined  to  remove  Maurice  to  his  own 
house,  where  he  could  be  sure  of  pure  air,  and  where 
he  himself  could  give  more  constant  attention  to  his 
patient  during  this  critical  period  of  his  disease.  It 
was  a  risk  to  take,  but  he  could  be  carried  on  a  litter 
by  careful  men,  and  remain  wholly  passive  during  the 
removal.  Maurice  signified  his  assent,  as  he  could 
hardly  help  doing,  —  for  the  doctor's  suggestion  took 
pretty  nearly  the  form  of  a  command.  He  thought  it 
a  matter  of  life  and  death,  and  was  gently  urgent  for 
his  patient's  immediate  change  of  residence.  The 
doctor  insisted  on  having  Maurice's  books  and  other 
movable  articles  carried  to  his  own  house,  so  that  he 
should  be  surrounded  by  familiar  sights,  and  not 
worry  himself  about  what  might  happen  to  objects 
which  he  valued,  if  they  were  left  behind  him. 

All  these  dispositions  were  quickly  and  quietly 
made,  and  everything  was  ready  for  the  transfer  of 
the  patient  to  the  house  of  the  hospitable  physician. 
Paolo  was  at  the  doctor's,  superintending  the  arrange 
ment  of  Maurice's  effects  and  making  all  ready  for 
his  master.  The  nurse  in  attendance,  a  trustworthy 
man  enough  in  the  main,  finding  his  patient  in  a  tran 
quil  sleep,  left  his  bedside  for  a  little  fresh  air.  While 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  263 

he  was  at  the  door  he  heard  a  shouting  which  excited 
his  curiosity,  and  he  followed  the  sound  until  he  found 
himself  at  the  border  of  the  lake.  It  was  nothing 
very  wonderful  which  had  caused  the  shouting.  A 
Newfoundland  dog  had  been  showing  off  his  accom 
plishments,  and  some  of  the  idlers  were  betting  as  to 
the  time  it  would  take  him  to  bring  back  to  his  master 
the  various  floating  objects  which  had  been  thrown  as 
far  from  the  shore  as  possible.  He  watched  the  dog 
a  few  minutes,  when  his  attention  was  drawn  to  a 
light  wherry,  pulled  by  one  young  lady  and  steered  by 
another.  It  was  making  for  the  shore,  which  it  would 
soon  reach.  The  attendant  remembered  all  at  once 
that  he  had  left  his  charge,  and  just  before  the  boat 
came  to  land  he  turned  and  hurried  back  to  the  pa 
tient.  Exactly  how  long  he  had  been  absent  he  could 
not  have  said,  *—  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  per 
haps  longer ;  the  time  appeared  short  to  him,  wearied 
with  long  sitting  and  watching. 

It  had  seemed,  when  he  stole  away  from  Maurice's 
bedside,  that  he  was  not  in  the  least  needed.  The 
patient  was  lying  perfectly  quiet,  and  to  all  appearance 
wanted  nothing  more  than  letting  alone.  It  was  such 
a  comfort  to  look  at  something  besides  the  worn  fea 
tures  of  a  sick  man,  to  hear  something  besides  his 
labored  breathing  and  faint,  half-whispered  words, 
that  the  temptation  to  indulge  in  these  luxuries  for  a 
few  minutes  had  proved  irresistible. 

Unfortunately,  Maurice's  slumbers  did  not  remain 
tranquil  during  the  absence  of  the  nurse.  He  very 
soon  fell  into  a  dream,  which  began  quietly  enough, 
but  in  the  course  of  the  sudden  transitions  which 
dreams  are  in  the  habit  of  undergoing  became  succes 
sively  anxious,  distressing,  terrifying.  His  earlier  and 


264  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

later  experiences  came  up  before  him,  fragmentary, 
incoherent,  chaotic  even,  but  vivid  as  reality.  He  was 
at  the  bottom  of  a  coal-mine  in  one  of  those  long,  nar 
row  galleries,  or  rather  worm-holes,  in  which  human 
beings  pass  a  large  part  of  their  lives,  like  so  many 
larvas  boring  their  way  into  the  beams  and  rafters  of 
some  old  building.  How  close  the  air  was  in  the 
stifling  passage  through  which  he  was  crawling !  The 
scene  changed,  and  he  was  climbing  a  slippery  sheet 
of  ice  with  desperate  effort,  his  foot  on  the  floor  of  a 
shallow  niche,  his  hold  an  icicle  ready  to  snap  in  an 
instant,  an  abyss  below  him  waiting  for  his  foot  to 
slip  or  the  icicle  to  break.  How  thin  the  air  seemed, 
how  desperately  hard  to  breathe !  He  was  thinking 
of  Mont  Blanc,  it  may  be,  and  the  fearfully  rarefied 
atmosphere  which  he  remembered  well  as  one  of  the 
great  trials  in  his  mountain  ascents*  No,  it  was  not 
Mont  Blanc,  —  it  was  not  any  one  of  the  frozen  Al 
pine  summits;  it  was  Hecla  that  he  was  climbing! 
The  smoke  of  the  burning  mountain  was  wrapping 
itself  around  him ;  he  was  choking  with  its  dense 
fumes ;  he  heard  the  flames  roaring  around  him,  he 
felt  the  hot  lava  beneath  his  feet,  he  uttered  a  faint 
cry,  and  awoke. 

The  room  was  full  of  smoke.  He  was  gasping  for 
breath,  strangling  in  the  smothering  oven  which  his 
chamber  had  become. 

The  house  was  on  fire  ! 

He  tried  to  call  for  help,  but  his  voice  failed  him, 
and  died  away  in  a  whisper.  He  made  a  desperate 
effort,  and  rose  so  as  to  sit  up  in  the  bed  for  an  in 
stant,  but  the  effort  was  too  much  for  him,  and  he 
sank  back  upon  his  pillow,  helpless.  He  felt  that  his 
hour  had  come,  for  he  could  not  live  in  this  dreadful 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  265 

atmosphere,  and  he  was  left  alone.  He  could  hear  the 
crackle  of  fire  as  the  flame  crept  along  from  one  par 
tition  to  another.  It  was  a  cruel  fate  to  be  left  to 
perish  in  that  way,  —  the  fate  that  many  a  martyr  had 
had  to  face,  —  to  be  first  strangled  and  then  burned. 
Death  had  not  the  terror  for  him  that  it  has  for  most 
young  persons.  He  was  accustomed  to  thinking  of  it 
calmly,  sometimes  wistfully,  even  to  such  a  degree 
that  the  thought  of  self-destruction  had  come  upon 
him  as  a  temptation.  But  here  was  death  in  an  un 
expected  and  appalling  shape.  He  did  not  know 
before  how  much  he  cared  to  live.  All  his  old  recol 
lections  came  before  him  as  it  were  in  one  long,  vivid 
flash.  The  closed  vista  of  memory  opened  to  its  far 
horizon-line,  and  past  and  present  were  pictured  in  a 
single  instant  of  clear  vision.  The  dread  moment 
which  had  blighted  his  life  returned  in  all  its  terror. 
He  felt  the  convulsive  spring  in  the  form  of  a  faint, 
impotent  spasm,  —  the  rush  of  air,  —  the  thorns  of 
the  stinging  and  lacerating  cradle  into  which  he  was 
precipitated.  One  after  another  those  paralyzing  seiz 
ures  which  had  been  like  deadening  blows  on  the 
naked  heart  seemed  to  repeat  themselves,  as  real  as  at 
the  moment  of  their  occurrence.  The  pictures  passed 
in  succession  with  such  rapidity  that  they  appeared 
almost  as  if  simultaneous.  The  vision  of  the  "inward 
eye  "  was  so  intensified  in  this  moment  of  peril  that 
an  instant  was  like  an  hour  of  common  existence. 
Those  who  have  been  very  near  drowning  know  well 
what  this  description  means.  The  development  of  a 
photograph  may  not  explain  it,  but  it  illustrates  the 
curious  and  familiar  fact  of  the  revived  recollections 
of  the  drowning  man's  experience.  The  sensitive  plate 
has  taken  one  look  at  a  scene,  and  remembers  it  all 


266  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Every  little  circumstance  is  there,  —  the  hoof  in  air, 
the  wing  in  flight,  the  leaf  as  it  falls,  the  wave  as  it 
breaks.  All  there,  but  invisible ;  potentially  present, 
but  impalpable,  inappreciable,  as  if  not  existing  at  all. 
A  wash  is  poured  over  it,  and  the  whole  scene  comes 
out  in  all  its  perfection  of  detail.  In  those  supreme 
moments  when  death  stares  a  man  suddenly  in  the 
face  the  rush  of  unwonted  emotion  floods  the  undevel 
oped  pictures  of  vanished  years,  stored  away  in  the 
memory,  the  vast  panorama  of  a  lifetime,  and  in  one 
swift  instant  the  past  conies  out  as  vividly  as  if  it  were 
again  the  present.  So  it  was  at  this  moment  with  the 
sick  man,  as  he  lay  helpless  and  felt  that  he  was  left 
to  die.  For  he  saw  no  hope  of  relief :  the  smoke  was 
drifting  in  clouds  into  the  room  ;  the  flames  were  very 
near ;  if  he  was  not  reached  and  rescued  immediately 
it  was  all  over  with  him. 

His  past  life  had  flashed  before  him.  Then  all  at 
once  rose  the  thought  of  his  future,  —  of  all  its  pos 
sibilities,  of  the  vague  hopes  which  he  had  cherished 
of  late  that  his  mysterious  doom  would  be  lifted  from 
him.  There  was  something,  then,  to  be  lived  for,  — 
something!  There  was  a  new  life,  it  might  be,  in 
store  for  him,  and  such  a  new  life  !  He  thought  of  all 
he  was  losing.  Oh,  could  he  but  have  lived  to  know 
the  meaning  of  love !  And  the  passionate  desire  of 
life  came  over  him,  — not  the  dread  of  death,  but  the 
longing  for  what  the  future  might  yet  have  of  happi 
ness  for  him. 

All  this  took  place  in  the  course  of  a  very  few  mo 
ments.  Dreams  and  visions  have  little  to  do  with 
measured  time,  and  ten  minutes,  possibly  fifteen  or 
twenty,  were  all  that  had  passed  since  the  beginning 
of  those  nightmare  terrors  which  were  evidently  sug 
gested  by  the  suffocating  air  he  was  breathing. 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  267 

What  had  happened  ?  In  the  confusion  of  moving 
books  and  other  articles  to  the  doctor's  house,  doors 
and  windows  had  been  forgotten.  Among  the  rest  a 
window  opening  into  the  cellar,  where  some  old  furni 
ture  had  been  left  by  a  former  occupant,  had  been 
left  unclosed.  One  of  the  lazy  natives,  who  had 
lounged  by  the  house  smoking  a  bad  cigar,  had  thrown 
the  burning  stump  in  at  this  open  window.  He  had 
no  particular  intention  of  doing  mischief,  but  he  had 
that  indifference  to  consequences  which  is  the  next 
step  above  the  inclination  to  crime.  The  burning 
stump  happened  to  fall  among  the  straw  of  an  old 
mattress  which  had  been  ripped  open.  The  smoker 
Went  his  way  without  looking  behind  him,  and  it  so 
chanced  that  no  other  person  passed  the  house  for 
some  time.  Presently  the  straw  was  in  a  blaze,  and 
from  this  the  fire  extended  to  the  furniture,  to  the 
stairway  leading  up  from  the  cellar,  and  was  working 
its  way  along  the  entry  under  the  stairs  leading  up  to 
the  apartment  where  Maurice  was  lying. 

The  blaze  was  fierce  and  swift,  as  it  could  not  help 
being  with  such  a  mass  of  combustibles,  —  loose  straw 
from  the  mattress,  dry  old  furniture,  and  old  warped 
floors  which  had  been  parching  and  shrinking  for  a 
score  or  two  of  years.  The  whole  house  was,  in  the 
common  language  of  the  newspaper  reports,  "  a  per 
fect  tinder-box,"  and  would  probably  be  a  heap  of 
ashes  in  half  an  hour.  And  there  was  this  unfortu 
nate  deserted  sick  man  lying  between  life  and  death, 
beyond  all  help  unless  some  unexpected  assistance 
should  come  to  his  rescue. 

As  the  attendant  drew  near  the  house  where  Mau 
rice  was  lying,  he  was  horror-struck  to  see  dense  vol 
umes  of  smoke  pouring  out  of  the  lower  windows.  It 


268  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

was  beginning  to  make  its  way  through  the  upper 
windows,  also,  and  presently  a  tongue  of  fire  shot  out 
and  streamed  upward  along  the  side  of  the  house. 
The  man  shrieked  Fire !  Fire !  with  all  his  might,  and 
rushed  to  the  door  of  the  building  to  make  his  way  to 
Maurice's  room  and  save  him.  He  penetrated  but  a 
short  distance  when,  blinded  and  choking  with  the 
smoke,  he  rushed  headlong  down  the  stairs  with  a  cry 
of  despair  that  roused  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
within  reach  of  a  human  voice.  Out  they  came  from 
their  houses  in  every  quarter  of  the  village.  The 
shout  of  Fire  !  Fire !  was  the  chief  aid  lent  by  many  of 
the  young  and  old.  Some  caught  up  pails  and  buck 
ets  :  the  more  thoughtful  ones  filling  them ;  the  has 
tier  snatching  them  up  empty,  trusting  to  find  water 
nearer  the  burning  building. 

Is  the  sick  man  moved? 

This  was  the  awful  question  first  asked,  —  for  in 
the  little  village  all  knew  that  Maurice  was  about  be 
ing  transferred  to  the  doctor's  house.  The  attendant, 
white  as  death,  pointed  to  the  chamber  where  he  had 
left  him,  and  gasped  out,  — 

"He  is  there!" 

A  ladder !  A  ladder  !  was  the  general  cry,  and  men 
and  boys  rushed  off  in  search  of  one.  But  a  single 
minute  was  an  age  now,  and  there  was  no  ladder  to  be 
had  without  a  delay  of  many  minutes.  The  sick  man 
was  going  to  be  swallowed  up  in  the  flames  before  it 
could  possibly  arrive.  Some  were  going  for  a  blanket 
or  a  coverlet,  in  the  hope  that  the  young  man  might 
have  strength  enough  to  leap  from  the  window  and  be 
safely  caught  in  it.  The  attendant  shook  his  head, 
and  said  faintly,  — 

"  He  cannot  move  from  his  bed." 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  269 

One  of  the  visitors  at  the  village,  —  a  millionaire, 
it  was  said,  —  a  kind-hearted  man,  spoke  in  hoarse, 
broken  tones :  — 

"  A  thousand  dollars  to  the  man  that  will  bring 
him  from  his  chamber  !  " 

The  fresh-water  fisherman  muttered,  "  I  should  like 
to  save  the  man  and  to  see  the  money,  but  it  ain't  a 
thaousan'  dollars,  nor  ten  thaousan'  dollars,  that'll 
pay  a  fellah  for  burnin'  to  death,  —  or  even  chokiu'  to 
death,  anyhaow." 

The  carpenter,  who  knew  the  framework  of  every 
house  in  the  village,  recent  or  old,  shook  his  head. 

"  The  stairs  have  been  shored  up,"  he  said,  "  and 
when  the  j'ists  that  holds  'em  up  goes,  down  they'll 
come.  It  ain't  safe  for  no  man  to  go  over  them 
stairs.  Hurry  along  your  ladder,  —  that 's  your  only 
chance." 

All  was  wild  confusion  around  the  burning  house. 
The  ladder  they  had  gone  for  was  missing  from  its 
case,  —  a  neighbor  had  carried  it  off  for  the  workmen 
who  were  shingling  his  roof.  It  would  never  get  there 
in  time.  There  was  a  fire-engine,  but  it  was  nearly 
half  a  mile  from  the  lakeside  settlement.  Some  were 
throwing  on  water  in  an  aimless,  useless  way ;  one  was 
sending  a  thin  stream  through  a  garden  syringe:  it 
seemed  like  doing  something,  at  least.  But  all  hope  of 
saving  Maurice  was  fast  giving  way,  so  rapid  was 
the  progress  of  the  flames,  so  thick  the  cloud  of  smoke 
that  filled  the  house  and  poured  from  the  windows. 
Nothing  was  heard  but  confused  cries,  shrieks  of  wo 
men,  all  sorts  of  orders  to  do  this  and  that,  no  one  know 
ing  what  was  to  be  done.  The  ladder !  The  ladder ! 
Five  minutes  more  and  it  will  be  too  laje  ! 

In  the  mean  time  the  alarm  of  fire  had  reached  Pa- 


270  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

olo,  and  he  had  stopped  his  work  of  arranging  Mau 
rice's  books  in  the  same  way  as  that  in  which  they  had 
stood  in  his  apartment,  and  followed  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound,  little  thinking  that  his  master  was  lying 
helpless  in  the  burning  house.  "  Some  chimney  afire," 
he  said  to  himself;  but  he  would  go  and  take  a  look,, 
at  any  rate. 

Before  Paolo  had  reached  the  scene  of  destruction 
and  impending  death,  two  young  women,  in  boating 
dresses  of  decidedly  Bloomerish  aspect,  had  suddenly 
joined  the  throng.  "  The  Wonder  "  and  "  The  Ter 
ror  "  of  their  school-days  —  Miss  Euthymia  Tower  and 
Miss  Lurida  Vincent  —  had  just  come  from  the  shore, 
where  they  had  left  their  wherry.  A  few  hurried 
words  told  them  the  fearful  story.  Maurice  Kirkwood 
was  lying  in  the  chamber  to  which  every  eye  was 
turned,  unable  to  move,  doomed  to  a  dreadful  death. 
All  that  could  be  hoped  was  that  he  would  perish  by 
suffocation  rather  than  by  the  flames,  which  would 
soon  be  upon  him.  The  man  who  had  attended  him 
had  just  tried  to  reach  his  chamber,  but  had  reeled 
back  out  of  the  door,  almost  strangled  by  the  smoke. 
A  thousand  dollars  had  been  offered  to  any  one  who 
would  rescue  the  sick  man,  but  no  one  had  dared  to 
make  the  attempt ;  for  the  stairs  might  fall  at  any  mo 
ment,  if  the  smoke  did  not  blind  and  smother  the  man 
who  passed  them  before  they  fell. 

The  two  young  women  looked  each  other  in  the  face 
for  one  swift  moment. 

"  How  can  he  be  reached  ?  "  asked  Lurida.  "  Is 
there  nobody  that  will  venture  his  life  to  save  a  brother 
like  that?" 

"  I  will  venture  mine,"  said  Euthymia. 

"No!   no!"   shrieked    Lurida,  —  "not  you!    not 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  271 

you !  It  is  a  man's  work,  not  yours !  You  shall  not 
go!" 

Poor  Luricla  had  forgotten  all  her  theories  in  this 
supreme  moment.  But  Euthymia  was  not  to  be  held 
back.  Taking  a  handkerchief  from  her  neck,  she 
dipped  it  in  a  pail  of  water  and  bound  it  about  her 
head.  Then  she  took  several  deep  breaths  of  air,  and 
filled  her  lungs  as  full  as  they  would  hold.  She  knew 
she  must  not  take  a  single  breath  in  the  choking  at 
mosphere  if  she  could  possibly  help  it,  and  Euthymia 
was  noted  for  her  power  of  staying  under  water  so  long 
that  more  than  once  those  who  saw  her  dive  thought 
she  would  never  come  up  again.  So  rapid  were  her 
movements  that  they  paralyzed  the  bystanders,  who 
would  forcibly  have  prevented  her  from  carrying  out 
her  purpose.  Her  imperious  determination  was  not  to 
be  resisted.  And  so  Euthymia,  a  willing  martyr,  if 
martyr  she  was  to  be,  and  not  saviour,  passed  within 
the  veil  that  hid  the  sufferer. 

Lurida  turned  deadly  pale,  and  sank  fainting  to  the 
ground.  She  was  the  first,  but  not  the  only  one,  of 
her  sex  that  fainted  as  Euthymia  disappeared  in  the 
smoke  of  the  burning  building.  Even  the  rector  grew 
very  white  in  the  face,  —  so  white  that  one  of  his 
vestry-men  begged  him  to  sit  down  at  once,  and  sprin 
kled  a  few  drops  of  water  on  his  forehead,  to  his  great 
disgust  and  manifest  advantage.  The  old  landlady  was 
crying  and  moaning,  and  her  husband  was  wiping  his 
eyes  and  shaking  his  head  sadly. 

"  She  will  never  come  out  alive,"  he  said  solemnly. 

"  Nor  dead,  neither,"  added  the  carpenter.  "  Ther' 
won't  be  nothing  left  of  neither  of  'em  but  ashes." 
And  the  carpenter  hid  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The   fresh-water  fisherman  had  pulled   out  a  rag 


272  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

which  he  called  a  "  hangkercher,"  —  it  had  served  to 
carry  bait  that  morning,  —  and  was  making  use  of  its 
best  corner  to  dry  the  tears  which  were  running  down 
his  cheeks.  The  whole  village  was  proud  of  Euthy- 
mia,  and  with  these  more  quiet  signs  of  grief  were 
mingled  loud  lamentations,  coming  alike  from  old  and 
young. 

All  this  was  not  so  much  like  a  succession  of  events 
as  it  was  like  a  tableau.  The  lookers-on  were  stunned 
with  its  suddenness,  and  before  they  had  time  to  re 
cover  their  bewildered  senses  all  was  lost,  or  seemed 
lost.  They  felt  that  they  should  never  look  again  on 
either  of  those  young  faces. 

The  rector,  not  unfeeling  by  nature,  but  inveterately 
professional  by  habit,  had  already  recovered  enough  to 
be  thinking  of  a  text  for  the  funeral  sermon.  The 
first  that  occurred  to  him  was  this,  —  vaguely,  of 
course,  in  the  background  of  consciousness  :  — 

"  Then  Shadrach,  Meshach,  and  Abed-nego  came 
forth  of  the  midst  of  the  fire." 

The  village  undertaker  was  of  naturally  sober  aspect 
and  reflective  disposition.  He  had  always  been  op 
posed  to  cremation,  and  here  was  a  funeral  pile  blaz 
ing  before  his  eyes.  He,  too,  had  his  human  sympa 
thies,  but  in  the  distance  his  imagination  pictured  the 
final  ceremony,  and  how  he  himself  should  figure  in  a 
spectacle  where  the  usual  centre  piece  of  attraction 
would  be  wanting,  —  perhaps  his  own  services  uncalled 
for. 

Blame  him  not,  you  whose  garden-patch  is  not  wa 
tered  with  the  tears  of  mourners.  The  string  of  self- 
interest  answers  with  its  chord  to  every  sound  ;  it  vi 
brates  with  the  funeral-bell,  it  finds  itself  trembling  to 
the  wail  of  the  De  Profundis.  Not  always,  —  not 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  273 

always ;  let  us  not  be  cynical  in  our  judgments,  but 
common  human  nature,  we  may  safely  say,  is  subject 
to  those  secondary  vibrations  under  the  most  solemn 
and  soul-subduing  influences. 

It  seems  as  if  we  were  doing  great  wrong  to  the 
scene  we  are  contemplating  in  delaying  it  by  the  de 
scription  of  little  circumstances  and  individual  thoughts 
and  feelings.  But  linger  as  we  may,  we  cannot  com 
press  into  a  chapter  —  we  could  not  crowd  into  a  vol 
ume  —  all  that  passed  through  the  minds  and  stirred 
the  emotions  of  the  awe-struck  company  which  was 
gathered  about  the  scene  of  danger  and  of  terror.  We 
are  dealing  with  an  impossibility:  consciousness  is  a 
surface  ;  narrative  is  a  line. 

Maurice  had  given  himself  up  for  lost.  His  breath 
ing  was  becoming  every  moment  more  difficult,  and  he 
felt  that  his  strength  could  hold  out  but  a  few  min 
utes  longer. 

"  Robert !  "  he  called  in  faint  accents.  But  the 
attendant  was  not  there  to  answer. 

"  Paolo  !  Paolo !  "  But  the  faithful  servant,  who 
would  have  given  his  life  for  his  master,  had  not  yet 
reached  the  place  where  the  crowd  was  gathered. 

"  Oh,  for  a  breath  of  air !  Oh,  for  an  arm  to  lift 
me  from  this  bed !  Too  late  !  Too  late !  "  he  gasped, 
with  what  might  have  seemed  his  dying  expiration. 

"  Not  too  late !  "  The  soft  voice  reached  his  ob 
scured  consciousness  as  if  it  had  come  down  to  him 
from  heaven. 

In  a  single  instant  he  found  himself  rolled  in  a 
blanket  and  in  the  arms  of  —  a  woman ! 

Out  of  the  stifling  chamber,  —  over  the  burning 
stairs,  —  close  by  the  tongues  of  fire  that  were  lapping 
up  all  they  could  reach,  —  out  into  the  open  air,  he 
18 


274  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

was  borne  swiftly  and  safely,  —  carried  as  easily  as  if 
he  had  been  a  babe,  in  the  strong  arms  of  "  The  Won 
der  "  of  the  gymnasium,  the  captain  of  the  Atalanta, 
who  had  little  dreamed  of  the  use  she  was  to  make  of 
her  natural  gifts  and  her  school-girl  accomplishments. 

Such  a  cry  as  arose  from  the  crowd  of  on-lookers  ! 
It  was  a  sound  that  none  of  them  had  ever  heard  be 
fore  or  could  expect  ever  to  hear  again,  unless  he 
should  be  one  of  the  last  boat-load  rescued  from  a 
sinking  vessel.  Then,  those  who  had  resisted  the 
overflow  of  their  emotion,  who  had  stood  in  white  de 
spair  as  they  thought  of  these  two  young  lives  soon  to 
be  wrapped  in  their  burning  shroud,  —  those  stern 
men  —  the  old  sea-captain,  the  hard-faced,  money- 
making,  cast-iron  tradesmen  of  the  city  counting-room 
—  sobbed  like  hysteric  women  ;  it  was  like  a  convul 
sion  that  overcame  natures  unused  to  those  deeper 
emotions  which  many  who  are  capable  of  experiencing 
die  without  ever  knowing. 

This  was  the  scene  upon  which  the  doctor  and  Pa 
olo  suddenly  appeared  at  the  same  moment. 

As  the  fresh  breeze  passed  over  the  face  of  the  res 
cued  patient,  his  eyes  opened  wide,  and  his  conscious 
ness  returned  in  almost  supernatural  lucidity.  Eu- 
thymia  had  sat  down  upon  a  bank,  and  was  still 
supporting  him.  His  head  was  resting  on  her  bosom. 
Through  his  awakening  senses  stole  the  murmurs  of 
the  living  cradle  which  rocked  him  with  the  wave- 
like  movements  of  respiration,  the  soft  susurrus  of 
the  air  that  entered  with  every  breath,  the  double 
beat  of  the  heart  which  throbbed  close  to  his  ear. 
And  every  sense,  and  every  instinct,  and  every  re 
viving  pulse  told  him  in  language  like  a  revelation 
from  another  world  that  a  woman's  arms  were  around 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

him,  and  that  it  was  life,  and  not  death,  which  her 
embrace  had  brought  him. 

She  would  have  disengaged  him  from  her  protecting 
hold,  but  the  doctor  made  her  a  peremptory  sign, 
which  he  followed  by  a  sharp  command  :  — 

"  Do  not  move  him  a  hair's  breadth,"  he  said. 
"Wait  until  the  litter  comes.  Any  sudden  move 
ment  might  be  dangerous.  Has  anybody  a  brandy 
flask  about  him  ?  " 

One  or  two  members  of  the  local  temperance  soci 
ety  looked  rather  awkward,  but  did  not  come  forward. 

The  fresh-water  fisherman  was  the  first  who  spoke. 

"  I  han't  got  no  brandy,"  he  said,  "  but  there  's  a 
drop  or  two  of  old  Medford  rum  in  this  here  that 
you  're  welcome  to,  if  it  '11  be  of  any  help.  I  alliz 
kerry  a  little  on  't  in  case  o'  gettin'  wet  V  chilled." 

So  saying  he  held  forth  a  flat  bottle  with  the  word 
Sarsaparilla  stamped  on  the  green  glass,  but  which 
contained  half  a  pint  or  more  of  the  specific  on  which 
he  relied  in  those  very  frequent  exposures  which  hap 
pen  to  persons  of  his  calling. 

The  doctor  motioned  back  Paolo,  who  would  have 
rushed  at  once  to  the  aid  of  Maurice,  and  who  was  not 
wanted  at  that  moment.  So  poor  Paolo,  in  an  agony 
of  fear  for  his  master,  was  kept  as  quiet  as  possible, 
and  had  to  content  himself  with  asking  all  sorts  of 
questions  and  repeating  all  the  prayers  he  could  think 
of  to  Our  Lady  and  to  his  holy  namesake  the  Apostle. 

The  doctor  wiped  the  mouth  of  the  fisherman's  bot 
tle  very  carefully.  "  Take  a  few  drops  of  this  cor 
dial,"  he  said,  as  he  held  it  to  his  patient's  lips. 
"  Hold  him  just  so,  Euthymia,  without  stirring.  I 
will  watch  him,  and  say  when  he  is  ready  to  be  moved. 
The  litter  is  near  by,  waiting."  Dr.  Butts  watched 


276  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

Maurice's  pulse  and  color.  The  "  old  Medford  "  knew 
its  business.  It  had  knocked  over  its  tens  of  thou 
sands  ;  it  had  its  redeeming  virtue,  and  helped  to  set 
up  a  poor  fellow  now  and  then.  It  did  this  for  Mau 
rice  very  effectively.  When  he  seemed  somewhat  re 
stored,  the  doctor  had  the  litter  brought  to  his  side, 
and  Euthymia  softly  resigned  her  helpless  burden, 
which  Paolo  and  the  attendant  Kobert  lifted  with  the 
aid  of  the  doctor,  who  walked  by  the  patient  as  he 
was  borne  to  the  home  where  Mrs.  Butts  had  made  all 
ready  for  his  reception. 

As  for  poor  Lurida,  who  had  thought  herself  equal 
to  the  sanguinary  duties  of  the  surgeon,  she  was  left 
lying  on  the  grass  with  an  old  woman  over  her,  work 
ing  hard  with  fan  and  smelling-salts  to  bring  her  back 
from,  her  long  fainting  fit. 


XXIV. 

THE   INEVITABLE. 

WHY  should  not  human  nature  be  the  same  in  Ar 
rowhead  Village  as  elsewhere  ?  It  could  not  seem 
strange  to  the  good  people  of  that  place  and  their 
visitors  that  these  two  young  persons,  brought  together 
under  circumstances  that  stirred  up  the  deepest  emo 
tions  of  which  the  human  soul  is  capable,  should  be 
come  attached  to  each  other.  But  the  bond  between 
them  was  stronger  than  any  knew,  except  the  good 
doctor,  who  had  learned  the  great  secret  of  Maurice's 
life.  For  the  first  time  since  his  infancy  he  had  fully 
felt  the  charm  which  the  immediate  presence  of  youth 
ful  womanhood  carries  with  it.  He  could  hardly  be 
lieve  the  fact  when  he  found  himself  no  longer  the 
subject  of  the  terrifying  seizures  of  which  he  had  had 
many  and  threatening  experiences. 

It  was  the  doctor's  business  to  save  his  patient's 
life,  if  he  could  possibly  do  it.  Maurice  had  been  re 
duced  to  the  most  perilous  state  of  debility  by  the  re 
lapse  which  had  interrupted  his  convalescence.  Only 
by  what  seemed  almost  a  miracle  had  he  survived  the 
exposure  to  suffocation  and  the  mental  anguish  through 
which  he  had  passed.  It  was  perfectly  clear  to  Dr. 
Butts  that  if  Maurice  could  see  the  young  woman  to 
whom  he  owed  his  life,  and,  as  the  doctor  felt  assured, 
the  revolution  in  his  nervous  system  which  would  be 
the  beginning  of  a  new  existence,  it  would  be  of  far 


278  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

more  value  as  a  restorative  agency  than  any  or  all  of 
the  drugs  in  the  pharmacopoeia.  He  told  this  to 
Euthymia,  and  explained  the  matter  to  her  parents 
and  friends.  She  must  go  with  him  on  some  of  his 
visits.  Her  mother  should  go  with  her,  or  her  sister  ; 
but  this  was  a  case  of  life  and  death,  and  no  maidenly 
scruples  must  keep  her  from  doing  her  duty. 

The  first  of  her  visits  to  the  sick,  perhaps  dying, 
man  presented  a  scene  not  unlike  the  picture  before 
spoken  of  on  the  title-page  of  the  old  edition  of  Galen. 
The  doctor  was  perhaps  the  most  agitated  of  the  little 
group.  He  went  before  the  others,  took  his  seat  by 
the  bedside,  and  held  the  patient's  wrist  with  his  fin 
ger  on  the  pulse.  As  Euthymia  entered  it  gave  a 
single  bound,  fluttered  for  an  instant  as  if  with  a  faint 
memory  of  its  old  habit,  then  throbbed  full  and  strong, 
comparatively,  as  if  under  the  spur  of  some  powerful 
stimulus.  Euthymia's  task  was  a  delicate  one,  but 
she  knew  how  to  disguise  its  difficulty. 

"  Here  is  a  flower  I  have  brought  you,  Mr.  Kirk- 
wood,"  she  said,  and  handed  him  a  white  chrysanthe 
mum.  He  took  it  from  her  hand,  and  before  she 
knew  it  he  took  her  hand  into  his  own,  and  held  it 
with  a  gentle  constraint.  What  could  she  do  ?  Here 
was  the  young  man  whose  life  she  had  saved,  at  least 
for  the  moment,  and  who  was  yet  in  danger  from  the 
disease  which  had  almost  worn  out  his  powers  of  re 
sistance. 

"  Sit  down  by  Mr.  Kirkwood's  side,"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "  He  wants  to  thank  you,  if  he  has  strength  to 
do  it,  for  saving  him  from  the  death  which  seemed  in 
evitable." 

Not  many  words  could  Maurice  command.  He  was 
weak  enough  for  womanly  tears,  but  their  fountains 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  279 

no  longer  flowed ;  it  was  with  him  as  with  the  dying, 
whose  eyes  may  light  up,  but  rarely  shed  a  tear. 

The  river  which  has  found  a  new  channel  widens 
and  deepens  it ;  it  lets  the  old  water-course  fill  up,  and 
never  returns  to  its  forsaken  bed.  The  tyrannous 
habit  was  broken.  The  prophecy  of  the  gitana  had 
verified  itself,  and  the  ill  a  fair  woman  had  wrought 
a  fairer  woman  had  conquered  and  abolished.  •- 

The  history  of  Maurice  Kirkwood  loses  its  excep 
tional  character  from  the  time  of  his  restoration  to  his 
natural  conditions.  His  convalescence  was  very  slow 
and  gradual,  but  no  further  accident  interrupted  its 
even  progress.  The  season  was  over,  the  summer  vis 
itors  had  left  Arrowhead  Village;  the  chrysanthe 
mums  were  going  out  of  flower,  the  frosts  had  come, 
and  Maurice  was  still  beneath  the  roof  of  the  kind  phy 
sician.  The  relation  between  him  and  his  preserver 
was  so  entirely  apart  from  all  common  acquaintances 
and  friendships  that  no  ordinary  rules  could  apply  to 
it.  Euthymia  visited  him  often  during  the  period  of 
his  extreme  prostration. 

"  You  must  come  every  day,"  the  doctor  said.  "  He 
gains  with  every  visit  you  make  him ;  he  pines  if  you 
miss  him  for  a  single  day."  So  she  came  and  sat  by 
him,  the  doctor  or  good  Mrs.  Butts  keeping  her  com 
pany  in  his  presence.  He  grew  stronger,  —  began  to 
sit  up  in  bed  ;  and  at  last  Euthymia  found  him  dressed 
as  in  health,  and  beginning  to  walk  about  the  room. 
She  was  startled.  She  had  thought  of  herself  as  a 
kind  of  nurse,  but  the  young  gentleman  could  hardly 
be  said  to  need  a  nurse  any  longer.  She  had  scruples 
about  making  any  further  visits.  She  asked  Lurida 
what  she  thought  about  it. 


280  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

"  Think  about  it  ?  "  said  Lurida.  "  Why  should  n't 
you  go  to  see  a  brother  as  well  as  a  sister,  I  should 
like  to  know  ?  If  you  are  afraid  to  go  to  see  Maurice 
Kirkwood,  /  am  not  afraid,  at  any  rate.  If  you  would 
rather  have  me  go  than  go  yourself,  I  will  do  it,  and 
let  people  talk  just  as  much  as  they  want  to.  Shall  I 
go  instead  of  you?  " 

Euthymia  was  not  quite  sure  that  this  would  be  the 
best  thing  for  the  patient.  The  doctor  had  told  her 
he  thought  there  were  special  reasons  for  her  own 
course  in  coming  daily  to  see  him.  "  I  am  afraid," 
she  said,  "  you  are  too  bright  to  be  safe  for  him  in  his 
weak  state.  Your  mind  is  such  a  stimulating  one,  you 
know.  A  dull  sort  of  person  like  myself  is  better  for 
him  just  now.  I  will  continue  visiting  him  as  long  as 
the  doctor  says  it  is  important  that  I  should ;  but  you 
must  defend  me,  Lurida,  —  I  know  you  can  explain  it 
all  so  that  people  will  not  blame  me." 

Euthymia  knew  full  well  what  the  effect  of  Lurida's 
penetrating  head-voice  would  be  in  a  convalescent's 
chamber.  She  knew  how  that  active  mind  of  hers 
would  set  the  young  man's  thoughts  at  work,  when 
what  he  wanted  was  rest  of  every  faculty.  Were  not 
these  good  and  sufficient  reasons  for  her  decision? 
What  others  could  there  be  ? 

So  Euthymia  kept  on  with  her  visits,  until  she 
blushed  to  see  that  she  was  continuing  her  charitable 
office  for  one  who  was  beginning  to  look  too  well  to  be 
called  an  invalid.  It  was  a  dangerous  condition  of 
affairs,  and  the  busy  tongues  of  the  village  gossips 
were  free  in  their  comments.  Free,  but  kindly,  for  the 
story  of  the  rescue  had  melted  every  heart ;  and  what 
could  be  more  natural  than  that  these  two  young  peo 
ple  whom  God  had  brought  together  in  the  dread  mo- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  281 

ment  of  peril  should  find  it  hard  to  tear  themselves 
asunder  after  the  hour  of  danger  was  past?  When 
gratitude  is  a  bankrupt,  love  only  can  pay  his  debts ; 
and  if  Maurice  gave  his  heart  to  Euthymia,  would  not 
she  receive  it  as  payment  in  full  ? 

The  change  which  had  taken  place  in  the  vital  cur 
rents  of  Maurice  Kirkwood's  system  was  as  simple  and 
solid  a  fact  as  the  change  in  a  magnetic  needle  when 
the  boreal  becomes  the  austral  pole,  and  the  austral 
the  boreal.  It  was  well,  perhaps,  that  this  change 
took  place  while  he  was  enfeebled  by  the  wasting  ef 
fects  of  long  illness.  For  all  the  long-defeated,  dis 
turbed,  perverted  instincts  had  found  their  natural 
channel  from  the  centre  of  consciousness  to  the  organ 
which  throbs  in  response  to  every  profound  emotion. 
As  his  health  gradually  returned,  Euthymia  could  not 
help  perceiving  a  flush  in  his  cheek,  a  glitter  in  his 
eyes,  a  something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice,  which  alto 
gether  were  a  warning  to  the  young  maiden  that  the 
highway  of  friendly  intercourse  was  fast  narrowing  to 
a  lane,  at  the  head  of  which  her  woman's  eye  could 
read  plainly  enough,  "  Dangerous  passing." 

"  You  look  so  much  better  to-day,  Mr.  Kirkwood," 
she  said,  "  that  I  think  I  had  better  not  play  Sister  of 
Charity  any  longer.  The  next  time  we  meet  I  hope 
you  will  be  strong  enough  to  call  on  me." 

She  was  frightened  to  see  how  pale  he  turned,  —  he 
was  weaker  than  she  thought.  There  was  a  silence  so 
profound  and  so  long  that  Mrs.  Butts  looked  up  from 
the  stocking  she  wras  knitting.  They  had  forgotten 
the  good  woman's  presence. 

Presently  Maurice  spoke,  —  very  faintly,  but  Mrs. 
Butts  dropped  a  stitch  at  the  first  word,  and  her  knit 
ting  fell  into  her  lap  as  she  listened  to  what  followed. 


282  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

"  No !  you  must  not  leave  me.  You  must  never 
leave  me.  You  saved  my  life.  But  you  have  done 
more  than  that,  —  more  than  you  know  or  can  ever 
know.  To  you  I  owe  it  that  I  am  living ;  with  you  I 
live  henceforth,  if  I  am  to  live  at  all.  All  I  am,  all  I 
hope,  —  will  you  take  this  poor  offering  from  one  who 
owes  you  everything,  whose  lips  never  touched  those 
of  woman  or  breathed  a  word  of  love  before  you 
taught  him  the  meaning  of  that  word  ?  " 

What  could  Euthymia  reply  to  this  question,  ut 
tered  with  all  the  depth  of  a  passion  which  had  never 
before  found  expression? 

Not  one  syllable  of  answer  did  listening  Mrs.  Butts 
overhear.  But  she  told  her  husband  afterwards  that 
there  was  nothing  in  the  tableaux  they  had  had  in 
September  to  compare  with  what  she  then  saw.  It 
was  indeed  a  pleasing  picture  which  those  two  young 
heads  presented  as  Euthymia  gave  her  inarticulate 
but  infinitely  expressive  answer  to  the  question  of 
Maurice  Kirkwood.  The  good-hearted  woman  thought 
it  time  to  leave  the  young  people.  Down  went  the 
stocking  with  the  needles  in  it ;  out  of  her  lap  tumbled 
the  ball  of  worsted,  rolling  along  the  floor  with  its 
yarn  trailing  after  it,  like  some  village  matron  who 
goes  about  circulating  from  hearth  to  hearth,  leaving 
all  along  her  track  the  story  of  the  new  engagement 
or  of  the  arrival  of  the  last  "little  stranger." 

Not  many  suns  had  set  before  it  was  told  all  through 
Arrowhead  Village  that  Maurice  Kirkwood  was  the 
accepted  lover  of  Euthymia  Tower. 


POSTSCRIPT:    AFTER-GLIMPSES. 


MISS  LURIDA  VINCENT  TO  MRS.  EUTHYMIA  KIRKWOOD. 

ARROWHEAD  VILLAGE,  May  18. 

MY  DEAREST  EUTHYMIA,  —  Who  would  have 
thought,  when  you  broke  your  oar  as  the  Atalanta 
flashed  by  the  Algonquin,  last  June,  that  before  the 
roses  came  again  you  would  find  yourself  the  wife  of  a 
fine  scholar  and  grand  gentleman,  and  the  head  of  a 
household  such  as  that  of  which  you  are  the  mistress  ? 
You  must  not  forget  your  old  Arrowhead  Village 
friends.  What  am  I  saying  ?  —  you  forget  them  !  No, 
dearest,  I  know  your  heart  too  well  for  that !  You  are 
not  one  of  those  who  lay  aside  their  old  friendships  as 
they  do  last  year's  bonnet  when  they  get  a  new  one. 
You  have  told  me  all  about  yourself  and  your  happi 
ness,  and  now  you  want  me  to  tell  you  about  myself 
and  what  is  going  on  in  our  little  place. 

And  first  about  myself.  I  have  given  up  the  idea 
of  becoming  a  doctor.  I  have  studied  mathematics  so 
much  that  I  have  grown  fond  of  certainties,  of  demon 
strations,  and  medicine  deals  chiefly  in  probabilities. 
The  practice  of  the  art  is  so  mixed  up  with  the  deepest 
human  interests  that  it  is  hard  to  pursue  it  with  that 
even  poise  of  the  intellect  which  is  demanded  by  sci 
ence.  I  want  knowledge  pure  and  simple,  —  I  do  not 
fancy  having  it  mixed.  Neither  do  I  like  the  thought 
of  passing  my  life  in  going  from  one  scene  of  suffering 


284  A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY. 

to  another;  I  am  not  saintly  enough  for  such  a  daily 
martyrdom,  nor  callous  enough  to  make  it  an  easy  oc 
cupation.  I  fainted  at  the  first  operation  I  saw,  and  I 
have  never  wanted  to  see  another.  I  don't  say  that  I 
would  n't  marry  a  physician,  if  the  right  one  asked 
me,  but  the  young  doctor  is  not  forthcoming  at  pres 
ent.  Yes,  I  think  I  might  make  a  pretty  good  doc 
tor's  wife.  I  could  teach  him  a  good  deal  about  head 
aches  and  backaches  and  all  sorts  of  nervous  revolutions, 
as  the  doctor  says  the  French  women  call  their  tan 
trums.  I  don't  know  but  I  should  be  willing  to  let 
him  try  his  new  medicines  on  me.  If  he  were  a 
homoeopath,  I  know  I  should ;  for  if  a  billionth  of  a 
grain  of  sugar  won't  begin  to  sweeten  my  tea  or  coffee, 
I  don't  feel  afraid  that  a  billionth  of  a  grain  of  any 
thing  would  poison  me,  —  no,  not  if  it  were  snake- 
venom  ;  and  if  it  were  not  disgusting,  I  would  swallow 
a  handful  of  his  lachesis  globules,  to  please  my  hus 
band.  But  if  I  ever  become  a  doctor's  wife,  my  hus 
band  will  not  be  one  of  that  kind  of  practitioners,  you 
may  be  sure  of  that,  nor  an  "  eclectic,"  nor  a  "  faith- 
cure  man."  On  the  whole,  I  don't  think  I  want  to  be 
married  at  all.  I  don't  like  the  male  animal  very 
well  (except  such  noble  specimens  as  your  husband). 
They  are  all  tyrants,  —  almost  all,  —  so  far  as  our  sex 
is  concerned,  and  I  often  think  we  could  get  on  better 
without  them. 

However,  the  creatures  are  useful  in  the  Society. 
They  send  us  papers,  some  of  them  well  worth  reading. 
You  have  told  me  so  often  that  you  would  like  to  know 
how  the  Society  is  getting  on,  and  to  read  some  of  the 
papers  sent  to  it  if  they  happened  to  be  interesting, 
that  I  have  laid  aside  one  or  two  manuscripts  expressly 
for  your  perusal.  You  will  get  them  by  and  by. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  285 

I  am  delighted  to  know  that  you  keep  Paolo  with 
you.  Arrowhead  Village  misses  him  dreadfully,  I  can 
tell  you.  What  is  the  reason  people  become  so  at 
tached  to  these  servants  with  Southern  sunlight  in  their 
natures?  I  suppose  life  is  not  long  enough  to  cool 
their  blood  down  to  our  Northern  standard.  Then 
they  are  so  child-like,  whereas  the  native  of  these  lati 
tudes  is  never  young  after  he  is  ten  or  twelve  years 
old.  Mother  says,  —  you  know  mother's  old-fashioned 
notions,  and  how  shrewd  and  sensible  she  is  in  spite  of 
them,  —  mother  says  that  when  she  was  a  girl  families 
used  to  import  young  men  and  young  women  from  the 
country  towns,  who  called  themselves  "  helps,"  not  ser 
vants,  —  no,  that  was  Scriptural ;  "  but  they  did  n't 
know  everything  down  in  Judee,"  and  it  is  not  good 
American  language.  She  says  that  these  people  would 
live  in  the  same  household  until  they  were  married, 
and  the  women  often  remain  in  the  same  service  un 
til  they  died  or  were  old  and  worn  out,  and  then, 
what  with  the  money  they  had  saved  and  the  care  and 
assistance  they  got  from  their  former  employers,  would 
pass  a  decent  and  comfortable  old  age,  and  be  buried 
in  the  family  lot.  Mother  has  made  up  her  mind  to 
the  change,  but  grandmother  is  bitter  about  it.  She 
says  there  never  was  a  country  yet  where  the  popula 
tion  was  made  up  of  "  ladies  "  and  "  gentlemen,"  and 
she  does  n't  believe  there  can  be ;  nor  that  putting  a 
spread  eagle  on  a  copper  makes  a  gold  dollar  of  it. 
She  is  a  pessimist  after  her  own  fashion.  She  thinks 
all  sentiment  is  dying  out  of  our  people.  No  loyalty 
for  the  sovereign,  the  king-post  of  the  political  edifice, 
she  says ;  no  deep  attachment  between  employer  and 
employed ;  no  reverence  of  the  humbler  members  of  a 
household  for  its  heads ;  and  to  make  sure  of  contin- 


286  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

ued  corruption  and  misery,  what  she  calls  "  universal 
suffrage  "  emptying  all  the  sewers  into  the  great  aque 
duct  we  all  must  drink  from.  "  Universal  suffrage ! " 
I  suppose  we  women  don't  belong  to  the  universe ! 
Wait  until  we  get  a  chance  at  the  ballot-box,  I  tell 
grandma,  and  see  if  we  don't  wash  out  the  sewers  be 
fore  they  reach  the  aqueduct !  But  my  pen  has  run 
away  with  me.  I  was  thinking  of  Paolo,  and  what  a 
pleasant  thing  it  is  to  have  one  of  those  child-like, 
warm-hearted,  attachable,  cheerful,  contented,  humble, 
faithful,  companionable,  but  never  presuming  grown 
up  children  of  the  South  waiting  on  one,  as  if  every 
thing  he  could  do  for  one  was  a  pleasure,  and  carrying 
a  look  of  content  in  his  face  which  makes  every  one 
who  meets  him  happier  for  a  glimpse  of  his  features. 

It  does  seem  a  shame  that  the  charming  relation  of 
master  and  servant,  intelligent  authority  and  cheerful 
obedience,  mutual  interest  in  each  other's  welfare, 
thankful  recognition  of  all  the  advantages  which  be 
long  to  domestic  service  in  the  better  class  of  families, 
should  be  almost  wholly  confined  to  aliens  and  their 
immediate  descendants.  Why  should  Hannah  think 
herself  so  much  better  than  Bridget?  When  they 
meet  at  the  polls  together,  as  they  will  before  long, 
they  will  begin  to  feel  more  of  an  equality  than  is  rec 
ognized  at  present.  The  native  female  turns  her  nose 
up  at  the  idea  of  "  living  out ;  "  does  she  think  herself 
so  much  superior  to  the  women  of  other  nationalities  ? 
Our  women  will  have  to  come  to  it,  —  so  grandmother 
says,  —  in  another  generation  or  two,  and  in  a  hun 
dred  years,  according  to  her  prophecy,  there  will  be  a 
new  set  of  old  "Miss  Pollys"  and  "Miss  Betseys" 
who  have  lived  half  a  century  in  the  same  families,  re 
spectful  and  respected,  cherished,  cared  for  in  time  of 


A  MORTAL  ANTIPATHY.  287 

need  (citizens  as  well  as  servants,  holding  a  ballot  as 
well  as  a  broom,  I  tell  her),  and  bringing  back  to  us 
the  lowly,  underfoot  virtues  of  contentment  and  hu 
mility,  which  we  do  so  need  to  carpet  the  barren  and 
hungry  thoroughfare  of  our  unstratified  existence. 

There,  I  have  got  a-going,  and  am  forgetting  all 
the  news  I  have  to  tell  you.  There  is  an  engagement 
you  will  want  to  know  all  about.  It  came  to  pass 
through  our  famous  boat-race,  which  you  and  I  re 
member,  and  shall  never  forget  as  long  as  we  live.  It 
seems  that  the  young  fellow  who  pulled  the  bow  oar 
of  that  men's  college  boat  which  we  had  the  pleasure 
of  beating  got  some  glimpses  of  Georgina,  our  hand 
some  stroke  oar.  I  believe  he  took  it  into  his  head 
that  it  was  she  who  threw  the  bouquet  that  won  the 
race  for  us.  He  was,  as  you  know,  greatly  mistaken, 
and  ought  to  have  made  love  to  me,  only  he  did  n't. 
Well,  it  seems  he  came  posting  down  to  the  Institute 
just  before  the  vacation  was  over,  and  there  got  a 
sight  of  Georgina.  I  wonder  whether  she  told  him 
she  did  n't  fling  the  bouquet !  Anyhow,  the  acquaint 
ance  began  in  that  way,  and  now  it  seems  that  this 
young  fellow,  good-looking  and  a  bright  scholar,  but 
with  a  good  many  months  more  to  pass  in  college,  is 
her  captive.  It  was  too  bad.  Just  think  of  my  bou 
quet's  going  to  another  girl's  credit !  No  matter,  — 
the  old  Atalanta  story  was  paid  off,  at  any  rate. 

You  want  to  know  all  about  dear  Dr.  Butts.  They 
say  he  has  just  been  offered  a  Professorship  in  one  of 
the  great  medical  colleges.  I  asked  him  about  it,  and 
he  did  not  say  that  he  had  or  had  not.  "  But,"  saM  he, 
"  suppose  that  I  had  been  offered  such  a  place  ;  do 
you  think  I  ought  to  accept  it  and  leave  Arrowhead 
Village?  Let  us  talk  it  over,"  said  he,  "just  as  if  I 


288  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

had  had  such  an  offer."  I  told  him  he  ought  to  stay. 
There  are  plenty  of  men  that  can  get  into  a  Profes 
sor's  chair,  I  said,  and  talk  like  Solomons  to  a  class 
of  wondering  pupils  :  but  once  get  a  really  good  doc 
tor  in  a  place,  a  man  who  knows  all  about  everybody, 
whether  they  have  this  or  that  tendency,  whether  when 
they  are  sick  they  have  a  way  of  dying  or  a  way  of 
getting  well,  what  medicines  agree  with  them  and  what 
drugs  they  cannot  take,  whether  they  are  of  the  sort 
that  think  nothing  is  the  matter  with  them  until  they 
are  dead  as  smoked  herring,  or  of  the  sort  that  send 
for  the  minister  if  they  get  a  stomach-ache  from  eating 
too  many  cucumbers,  —  who  knows  all  about  all  the 
people  within  half  a  dozen  miles  (all  the  sensible  ones, 
that  is,  who  employ  a  regular  practitioner),  —  such  a 
man  as  that,  I  say,  is  not  to  be  replaced  like  a  missing 
piece  out  of  a  Springfield  musket  or  a  Waltham  watch. 
Don't  go !  said  I.  Stay  here  and  save  our  precious 
lives,  if  you  can,  or  at  least  put  us  through  in  the 
proper  way,  so  that  we  need  n't  be  ashamed  of  our 
selves  for  dying,  if  we  must  die.  Well,  Dr.  Butts  is 
not  going  to  leave  us.  I  hope  you  will  have  no  un 
welcome  occasion  for  his  services,  —  you  are  never 
ill,  you  know,  —  but,  anyhow,  he  is  going  to  be  here, 
and  no  matter  what  happens  he  will  be  on  hand. 

The  village  news  is  not  of  a  very  exciting  character. 
Item  1.  A  new  house  is  put  up  over  the  ashes  of  the 
one  in  which  your  husband  lived  while  he  was  here. 
It  was  planned  by  one  of  the  autochthonous  inhab 
itants  with  the  most  ingenious  combination  of  incon- 
vertfences  that  the  natural  man  could  educe  from  his 
original  perversity  of  intellect.  To  get  at  any  one 
room  you  must  pass  through  every  other.  It  is  blind, 
or  nearly  so,  on  the  only  side  which  has  a  good  pros- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  289 

pect,  and  commands  a  fine  view  of  the  barn  and  pig 
sty  through  numerous  windows.  Item  2.  We  have  a 
small  fire-engine  near  the  new  house  which  can  be 
worked  by  a  man  or  two,  and  would  be  equal  to  the 
emergency  of  putting  out  a  bunch  of  fire-crackers. 
Item  3.  We  have  a  new  ladder,  in  a  box,  close  to  the 
new  fire-engine,  so  if  the  new  house  catches  fire,  like 
its  predecessor,  and  there  should  happen  to  be  a  sick 
man  on  an  upper  floor,  he  can  be  got  out  without  run 
ning  the  risk  of  going  up  and  down  a  burning  stair 
case.  What  a  blessed  thing  it  was  that  there  was  no 
fire-engine  near  by  and  no  ladder  at  hand  on  the  day 
of  the  great  rescue !  If  there  had  been,  what  a  change 
in  your  programme  of  life !  You  remember  that "  cup 
of  tea  spilt  on  Mrs.  Masham's  apron,"  which  we  used 
to  read  of  in  one  of  Everett's  Orations,  and  all  its 
wide-reaching  consequences  in  the  affairs  of  Europe. 
I  hunted  up  that  cup  of  tea  as  diligently  as  ever  a 
Boston  matron  sought  for  the  last  leaves  in  her  old 
caddy  after  the  tea-chests  had  been  flung  overboard  at» 
Griffin's  wharf,  —  but  no  matter  about  that,  now.  „ 
That  is  the  way  things  come  about  in  this  world.  I 
must  write  a  lecture  on  lucky  mishaps,  or,  more  ele 
gantly,  fortunate  calamities.  It  will  be  just  the  con 
verse  of  that  odd  essay  of  Swift's  we  read  together,  — 
the  awkward  and  stupid  things  done  with  the  best  in 
tentions.  Perhaps  I  shall  deliver  the  lecture  in  your 
city :  you  will  come  and  hear  it,  and  bring  him,  won't 
you,  dearest  ?  Always,  your  loving  LURIDA. 

19 


290  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

MISS  LUEIDA  VINCENT  TO  MRS.  EUTHYMIA  KIRKWOOD. 

It  seems  forever  since  you  left  us,  dearest  Euthy- 
mia !  And  are  you,  and  is  your  husband,  and  Paolo, 
—  good  Paolo,  —  are  you  all  as  well  and  happy  as 
you  have  been  and  as  you  ought  to  be  ?  I  suppose 
our  small  village  seems  a  very  quiet  sort  of  place  to 
pass  the  winter  in,  now  that  you  have  become  accus 
tomed  to  the  noise  and  gayety  of  a  great  city.  For 
all  that,  it  is  a  pretty  busy  place  this  winter,  I  can  tell 
you.  We  have  sleighing  parties,  —  I  never  go  to  them, 
myself,  because  I  can't  keep  warm,  and  my  mind 
freezes  up  when  my  blood  cools  down  below  95°  or 
96°  Fahrenheit.  I  had  a  great  deal  rather  sit  by  a 
good  fire  and  read  about  Arctic  discoveries.  But  I 
like  very  well  to  hear  the  bells  jingling  and  to  see  the 
young  people  trying  to  have  a  good  time  as  hard  as 
they  do  at  a  picnic.  It  may  be  that  they  do,  but  to 
me  a  picnic  is  purgatory  and  a  sleigh-ride  that  other 
place,  where,  as  my  favorite  Milton  says,  "  frost  per 
forms  the  effect  of  fire."  I  believe  I  have  quoted  him 
correctly  ;  I  ought  to,  for  I  could  repeat  half  his  po 
ems  from  memory  once,  if  I  cannot  now. 

You  must  have  plenty  of  excitement  in  your  city 
life.  I  suppose  you  recognized  yourself  in  one  of 
the  society  columns  of  the  "  Household  Inquisitor :  " 
"  Mrs.  E.  K.,  very  beautiful,  in  an  elegant,"  etc.,  etc., 
"  with  pearls,"  etc.,  etc.,  —  as  if  you  were  not  the 
ornament  of  all  that  you  wear,  no  matter  what  it 


is 


I  am  so  glad  that  you  have  married  a  scholar'. 
Why  should  not  Maurice  —  you  both  tell  me  to  call 
him  so  —  take  the  diplomatic  office  which  has  been 
offered  him  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  he  would  find  him- 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  291 

self  in  exactly  the  right  place.  He  can  talk  in  two  or 
three  languages,  has  good  manners,  and  a  wife  who 
—  well,  what  shall  I  say  of  Mrs.  Kirkwood  but  that 
"  she  would  be  good  company  for  a  queen,"  as  our 
old  friend  the  quondam  landlady  of  the  Anchor  Tav 
ern  used  to  say  ?  I  should  so  like  to  see  you  presented 
at  Court !  It  seems  to  me  that  I  should  be  willing  to 
hold  your  train  for  the  sake  of  seeing  you  in  your 
court  feathers  and  things. 

As  for  myself,  I  have  been  thinking  of  late  that  I 
would  become  either  a  professional  lecturer  or  head 
mistress  of  a  great  school  or  college  for  girls.  I  have 
tried  the  first  business  a  little.  Last  month  I  deliv 
ered  a  lecture  on  Quaternions.  I  got  three  for  my 
audience  ;  two  came  over  from  the  Institute,  and  one 
from  that  men's  college  which  they  try  to  make  out  to 
be  a  university,  and  where  no  female  is  admitted  un 
less  she  belongs  among  the  quadrupeds.  I  enjoyed 
lecturing,  but  the  subject  is  a  difficult  one,  and  I  don't 
think  any  one  of  them  had  any  very  clear  notion  of 
what  I  was  talking  about,  except  Khodora,  — and  I 
know  she  did  n't.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  lecturing 
to  instruct  myself.  I  mean  to  try  something  easier 
next  time.  I  have  thought  of  the  Basque  language 
and  literature.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ? 

The  Society  goes  on  famously.  We  have  had  a 
paper  presented  and  read  lately  which  has  greatly 
amused  some  of  us  and  provoked  a  few  of  the  weaker 
sort.  The  writer  is  that  crabbed  old  Professor  of 
Belles-Lettres  at  that  men's  college  over  there.  He 
is  dreadfully  hard  on  the  poor  "  poets,"  as  they  call 
themselves.  It  seems  that  a  great  many  young  per 
sons,  and  more  especially  a  great  many  young  girls,  of 
whom  the  Institute  has  furnished  a  considerable  pro- 


292  A   MOKTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

portion,  have  taken  to  sending  him  their  rhymed  pro 
ductions  to  be  criticised,  —  expecting  to  be  praised, 
no  doubt,  every  one  of  them.  I  must  give  you  one 
of  the  sauciest  extracts  from  his  paper  in  his  own 
words :  — 

"  It  takes  half  my  time  to  read  the  '  poems '  sent  me 
by  young  people  of  both  sexes.  They  would  be  more 
shy  of  doing  it  if  they  knew  that  I  recognize  a  ten 
dency  to  rhyming  as  a  common  form  of  mental  weak 
ness,  and  the  publication  of  a  thin  volume  of  verse  as 
prima  facie  evidence  of  ambitious  mediocrity,  if  not 
inferiority.  Of  course  there  are  exceptions  to  this 
rule  of  judgment,  but  I  maintain  that  the  presumption 
is  always  against  the  rhymester  as  compared  with  the 
less  pretentious  persons  about  him  or  her,  busy  with 
some  useful  calling,  —  too  busy  to  be  tagging  rhymed 
commonplaces  together.  Just  now  there  seems  to  be 
an  epidemic  of  rhyming  as  bad  as  the  dancing  mania, 
or  the  sweating  sickness.  After  reading  a  certain 
amount  of  manuscript  verse  one  is  disposed  to  anath 
ematize  the  inventor  of  hornophonous  syllabification. 
[This  phrase  made  a  great  laugh  when  it  was  read.] 
This,  that  is  rhyming,  must  have  been  found  out  very 
early,  — 

'  Where  are  you,  Adam  ?  ' 

'  Here  am  I,  Madam  ; ' 

but  it  can  never  have  been  habitually  practised  until 
after  the  Fall.  The  intrusion  of  tintinnabulating 
terminations  into  the  conversational  intercourse  of 
men  and  angels  would  have  spoiled  Paradise  itself. 
Milton  would  not  have  them  even  in  Paradise  Lost, 
you  remember.  For  my  own  part,  I  wish  certain 
rhymes  could  be  declared  contraband  of  written  or 
printed  language.  Nothing  should  be  allowed  to  be 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  293 

hurled  at  the  world  or  whirled  with  it,  or  furled  upon 
it  or  curled  over  it ;  all  eyes  should  be  kept  away  from 
the  skies,  in  spite  of  os  homini  sublime  dcdit ;  youth 
should  be  coupled  with  all  the  virtues  except  truth ; 
earth  should  never  be  reminded  of  her  birth ;  death 
should  never  be  allowed  to  stop  a  mortal's  breath,  nor 
the  bell  to  sound  his  knell,  nor  flowers  from  blossom 
ing  bowers  to  wave  over  his  grave  or  show  their  bloom 
upon  his  tomb.  AVe  have  rhyming  dictionaries,  —  let 
us  have  one  from  which  all  rhymes  are  rigorously  ex 
cluded.  The  sight  of  a  poor  creature  grubbing  for 
rhymes  to  fill  up  his  sonnet,  or  to  cram  one  of  those 
voracious,  rhyme-swallowing  rigmaroles  which  some  of 
our  drudging  poetical  operatives  have  been  exhausting 
themselves  of  late  to  satiate  with  jingles,  makes  my 
head  ache  and  my  stomach  rebel.  Work,  work  of 
some  kind,  is  the  business  of  men  and  women,  not  the 
making  of  jingles !  No,  —  no,  —  no !  I  want  to  see 
the  young  people  in  our  schools  and  academies  and 
colleges,  and  the  graduates  of  these  institutions,  lifted 
up  out  of  the  little  Dismal  Swamp  of  self -contemplat 
ing  and  self-indulging  and  self -commiserating  emotion 
alism  which  is  surfeiting  the  land  with  those  literary 
sandwiches,  —  thin  slices  of  tinkling  .sentimentality 
between  two  covers  looking  like  hard-baked  gilt  gin 
gerbread.  But  what  faces  these  young  folks  make  up 
at  my  good  advice  !  They  get  tipsy  on  their  rhymes. 
Nothing  intoxicates  one  like  his  —  or  her  —  own 
verses,  and  they  hold  on  to  their  metre-ballad-monger- 
ing  as  the  fellows  that  inhale  nitrous  oxide  hold  on  to 
the  gas-bag." 

~W  e  laughed  over  this  essay  of  the  old  Professor, 
though  it  hit  us  pretty  hard.  The  best  part  of  the 
joke  is  that  the  old  man  himself  published  a  thin  vol- 


294  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

ume  of  poems  when  he  was  young,  which  there  is  good 
reason  to  think  he  is  not  very  proud  of,  as  they  say  he 
buys  up  all  the  copies  he  can  find  in  the  shops.  No 
matter  what  they  say,  I  can't  help  agreeing  with  him 
about  this  great  flood  of  "poetry,"  as  it  calls  itself, 
and  looking  at  the  rhyming  mania  much  as  he  does. 

How  I  do  love  real  poetry !  That  is  the  reason  I 
hate  rhymes  which  have  not  a  particle  of  it  in  them. 
The  foolish  scribblers  that  deal  in  them  are  like  bad 
workmen  in  a  carpenter's  shop.  They  not  only  turn 
out  bad  jobs  of  work,  but  they  spoil  the  tools  for  bet 
ter  workmen.  There  is  hardly  a  pair  of  rhymes  in 
the  English  language  that  is  not  so  dulled  and  hacked 
and  gapped  by  these  'prentice  hands  that  a  master  of 
the  craft  hates  to  touch  them,  and  yet  he  cannot  very 
well  do  without  them.  I  have  not  been  besieged  as  the 
old  Professor  has  been  with  such  multitudes  of  would- 
be-poetical  aspirants  that  he  could  not  even  read  their 
manuscripts,  but  I  have  had  a  good  many  letters  con 
taining  verses,  and  I  have  warned  the  writers  of  the 
delusion  under  which  they  were  laboring. 

You  may  like  to  know  that  I  have  just  been  trans 
lating  some  extracts  from  the  Greek  Anthology.  I 
send  you  a  few  specimens  of  my  work,  with  a  Dedica 
tion  to  the  Shade  of  Sappho.  I  hope  you  will  find 
something  of  the  Greek  rhythm  in  my  versions,  and 
that  I  have  caught  a  spark  of  inspiration  from  the  im 
passioned  Lesbian.  I  have  found  great  delight  in  this 
work,  at  any  rate,  and  am  never  so  happy  as  when  I 
read  from  my  manuscript  or  repeat  from  memory  the 
lines  into  which  I  have  transferred  the  thought  of  the 
men  and  women  of  two  thousand  years  ago,  or  given 
rhythmical  expression  to  my  own  rapturous  feelings 
with  regard  to  them.  I  must  read  you  my  Dedication 


A   MORTAL    ANTIPATHY.  295 

to  the  Shade  of  Sappho.  I  cannot  help  thinking  that 
you  will  like  it  better  than  either  of  my  last  two,  The 
Song  of  the  Roses,  or  The  Wail  of  the  Weeds. 

How  I  do  miss  you,  dearest !  I  want  you :  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  what  I  have  written ;  I  want  you  to 
hear  all  about  my  plans  for  the  future  ;  /  want  to 
look  at  you,  and  think  how  grand  it  must  be  to  feel 
one's  self  to  be  such  a  noble  and  beautiful  creature ; 
I  want  to  wander  in  the  woods  with  you,  to  float  on 
the  lake,  to  share  your  life  and  talk  over  every  day's 
doings  with  you.  Alas !  I  feel  that  we  have  parted 
as  two  friends  part  at  a  port  of  embarkation:  they 
embrace,  they  kiss  each  other's  cheeks,  they  cover 
their  faces  and  weep,  they  try  to  speak  good-by  to 
each  other,  they  watch  from  the  pier  and  from  the 
deck ;  the  two  forms  grow  less  and  less,  fainter  and 
fainter  in  the  distance,  two  white  handkerchiefs  flutter 
once  and  again,  and  yet  once  more,  and  the  last  visi 
ble  link  of  the  chain  which  binds  them  has  parted. 
Dear,  dear,  dearest  Euthymia,  my  eyes  are  running 
over  with  tears  when  I  think  that  we  may  never,  never 
meet  again. 

Don't  you  want  some  more  items  of  village  news  ? 
We  are  threatened  with  an  influx  of  stylish  people : 
"  Buttons  "  to  answer  the  door-bell,  in  place  of  the 
chamber-maid;  "butler,"  in  place  of  the  "hired  man;" 
footman  in  top-boots  and  breeches,  cockade  on  hat, 
arms  folded  d  la  Napoleon ;  tandems,  "  drags,"  dog 
carts,  and  go-carts  of  all  sorts.  It  is  rather  amusing 
to  look  at  their  ambitious  displays,  but  it  takes  away 
the  good  old  country  flavor  of  the  place. 

I  don't  believe  you  mean  to  try  to  astonish  us  when 
you  come  back  to  spend  your  summers  here.  I  sup 
pose  you  must  have  a  large  house,  and  I  am  sure  you 


296  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

will  have  a  beautiful  one.  I  suppose  you  will  have 
some  fine  horses,  and  who  would  n't  be  glad  to  ?  But 
I  do  not  believe  you  will  try  to  make  your  old  Arrow 
head  Village  friends  stare  their  eyes  out  of  their  heads 
with  a  display  meant  to  outshine  everybody  else  that 
comes  here.  You  can  have  a  yacht  on  the  lake,  if  you 
like,  but  I  hope  you  will  pull  a  pair  of  oars  in  our  old 
boat  once  in  a  while,  with  me  to  steer  you.  I  know 
you  will  be  just  the  same  dear  Euthymia  you  always 
were  and  always  must  be.  How  happy  you  must 
make  such  a  man  as  Maurice  Kirkwood !  And  how 
happy  you  ought  to  be  with  him  !  —  a  man  who  knows 
what  is  in  books,  and  who  has  seen  for  himself  what 
is  in  men.  If  he  has  not  seen  so  much  of  women, 
where  could  he  study  all  that  is  best  in  womanhood 
as  he  can  in  his  own  wife  ?  Only  one  thing  that  dear 
Euthymia  lacks.  She  is  not  quite  pronounced  enough 
in  her  views  as  to  the  rights  and  the  wrongs  of  the 
sex.  When  I  visit  you,  as  you  say  I  shall,  I  mean  to 
indoctrinate  Maurice  with  sound  views  on  that  sub 
ject.  I  have  written  an  essay  for  the  Society,  which 
I  hope  will  go  a  good  way  towards  answering  all  the 
objections  to  female  suffrage.  I  mean  to  read  it  to 
your  husband,  if  -you  will  let  me,  as  I  know  you  will, 
and  perhaps  you  would  like  to  hear  it,  —  only  you 
know  my  thoughts  on  the  subject  pretty  well  already. 
With  all  sorts  of  kind  messages  to  your  dear  hus 
band,  and  love  to  your  precious  self,  I  am  ever  your 

LURIDA. 

DR.    BUTTS    TO    MRS.    EUTHYMIA   KIRKWOOD. 

MY  DEAR  EUTHYMIA, —  My  pen  refuses  to  call  yon 
by  any  other  name.  Siveet-souled  you  are,  and  youi 
Latinized  Greek  name  is  the  one  which  truly  desig. 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  297 

nates  you.  I  cannot  tell  you  how  we  have  followed 
you,  with  what  interest  and  delight  through  your  trav 
els,  as  you  have  told  their  story  in  your  letters  to  your 
mother.  She  has  let  us  have  the  privilege  of  read 
ing  them,  and  we  have  been  with  you  in  steamer, 
yacht,  felucca,  gondola,  Nile-boat ;  in  all  sorts  of 
places,  from  crowded  capitals  to  4i  deserts  where  no 
men  abide,"  —  everywhere  keeping  company  with  you 
in  your  natural  and  pleasant  descriptions  of  your  ex 
periences.  And  now  that  you  have  returned  to  your 
home  in  the  great  city  I  must  write  you  a  few  lines  of 
welcome,  if  nothing  more. 

You  will  find  Arrowhead  Village  a  good  deal  changed 
since  you  left  it.  We  are  discovered  by  some  of 
those  over-rich  people  who  make  the  little  place  upon 
which  they  swarm  a  kind  of  rural  city.  When  this 
happens  the  consequences  aro  striking,  —  some  of 
them  desirable  and  some  far  otherwise.  The  effect 
of  well-built,  well-furnished,  well-kept  houses  and  of 
handsome  grounds  always  maintained  in  good  order 
about  them  shows  itself  in  a  large  circuit  around  the 
fashionable  centre.  Houses  get  on  a  new  coat  of 
paint,  fences  are  kept  in  better  order,  little  plots  of 
flowers  show  themselves  where  only  ragged  weeds  had 
rioted,  the  inhabitants  present  themselves  in  more 
comely  attire  and  drive  in  handsomer  vehicles  with 
more  carefully  groomed  horses.  On  the  other  hand, 
there  is  a  natural  jealousy  on  the  part  of  the  natives 
of  the  region  suddenly  become  fashionable.  They 
have  seen  the  land  they  sold  at  farm  prices  by  the 
acre  coming  to  be  valued  by  the  foot,  like  the  corner 
lots  in  a  city.  Their  simple  and  humble  modes  of 
life  look  almost  poverty-stricken  in  the  glare  of  wealth 
and  luxury  which  so  outshines  their  plain  way  of  liv- 


298  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

ing.  It  is  true  that  many  of  them  have  found  them 
selves  richer  than  in  former  days,  when  the  neighbor 
hood  lived  on  its  own  resources.  They  know  how  to 
avail  themselves  of  their  altered  position,  and  soon 
learn  to  charge  city  prices  for  country  products ;  but 
nothing  can  make  people  feel  rich  who  see  themselves 
surrounded  by  men  whose  yearly  income  is  many  times 
their  own  whole  capital.  I  think  it  would  be  better 
if  our  rich  men  scattered  themselves  more  than  they 
do,  —  buying  large  country  estates,  building  houses 
and  stables  which  will  make  it  easy  to  entertain  their 
friends,  and  depending  for  society  on  chosen  guests 
rather  than  on  the  mob  of  millionaires  who  come  to 
gether  for  social  rivalry.  But  I  do  not  fret  myself 
about  it.  Society  will  stratify  itself  according  to  the 
laws  of  social  gravitation.  It  will  take  a  generation 
or  two  more,  perhaps,  to  arrange  the  strata  by  precip 
itation  and  settlement,  but  we  can  always  depend  on 
one  principle  to  govern  the  arrangement  of  the  layers. 
People  interested  in  the  same  things  will  naturally 
come  together.  The  youthful  heirs  of  fortunes  who 
keep  splendid  yachts  have  little  to  talk  about  with 
the  oarsman  who  pulls  about  on  the  lake  or  the  river. 
What  does  young  Dives,  who  drives  his  four-in-hand 
and  keeps  a  stable  full  of  horses,  care  about  Lazarus, 
who  feels  rich  in  the  possession  of  a  horse-railroad 
ticket  ?  You  know  how  we  live  at  our  house,  plainly, 
but  with  a  certain  degree  of  cultivated  propriety.  We 
make  no  pretensions  to  what  is  called  "  style."  We 
are  still  in  that  social  stratum  where  the  article  called 
"  a  napkin-ring  "  is  recognized  as  admissible  at  the 
ilmner-table.  That  fact  sufficiently  defines  our  mod 
est  pretensions.  The  napkin-ring  is  the  boundary 
mark  between  certain  classes.  But  one  evening  Mrs, 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  299 

Butts  and  I  went  out  to  a  party  given  by  the  lady 
of  a  worthy  family,  where  the  napkin  itself  was  a 
newly  introduced  luxury.  The  conversation  of  the 
hostess  and  her  guests  turned  upon  details  of  the 
kitchen  and  the  laundry;  upon  the  best  mode  of 
raising  bread,  whether  with  "  emptins "  (emptyings, 
yeast)  or  baking  powder;  about  "bluing"  and  starch 
ing  and  crimping,  and  similar  matters.  Poor  Mrs. 
Butts !  She  knew  nothing  more  about  such  thing's 

o  o 

than  her  hostess  did  about  Shakespeare  and  the  musi 
cal  glasses.  What  was  the  use  of  trying  to  enforce 
social  intercourse  under  such  conditions  ?  Incompati 
bility  of  temper  has  been  considered  ground  for  a  di 
vorce  ;  incompatibility  of  interests  is  a  sufficient  war 
rant  for  social  separation.  The  multimillionaires  have 
so  much  that  is  common  among  themselves,  and  so  lit 
tle  that  they  share  with  us  of  moderate  means,  that 
they  will  naturally  form  a  specialized  class,  and  in 
virtue  of  their  palaces,  their  picture-galleries,  their 
equipages,  their  yachts,  their  large  hospitality,  consti 
tute  a  kind  of  exclusive  aristocracy.  Religion,  which 
ought  to  be  the  great  leveller,  cannot  reduce  these 
elements  to  the  same  grade.  You  may  read  in  the 
parable,  "Friend,  how  earnest  thou  in  hither  not 
having  a  wedding  garment  ?  "  The  modern  version 
would  be,  "  How  came  you  at  Mrs.  Billion's  ball  not 
having  a  dress  on  your  back  which  came  from  Paris  ?  " 
The  little  church  has  got  a  new  stained  window,  a 
saint  who  reminds  me  of  Hamlet's  uncle,  —  a  thing 
"  of  shreds  and  patches,"  but  rather  pretty  to  look  at, 
with  an  inscription  under  it  which  is  supposed  to  be 
the  name  of  the  person  in  whose  honor  the  window 
was  placed  in  the  church.  Smith  was  a  worthy  man 
and  a  faithful  churchwarden,  and  I  hope  posterity  will 


300  A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

be  able  to  spell  out  his  name  on  his  monumental  win 
dow  ;  but  that  old  English  lettering  would  puzzle 
Mephistopheles  himself,  if  he  found  himself  before 
this  memorial  tribute,  on  the  inside,  —  you  know  he 
•goes  to  church  sometimes,  if  you  remember  your 
Faust. 

The  rector  has  come  out,  in  a  quiet  way,  as  an  evo 
lutionist.  He  has  always  been  rather  "  broad  "  in  his 
views,  but  cautious  in  their  expression.  You  can  tell 
the  three  branches  of  the  mother-island  church  by  the 
way  they  carry  their  heads.  The  low-church  clergy 
look  down,  as  if  they  felt  themselves  to  be  worms  of 
the  dust ;  the  high-church  priest  drops  his  head  on 
one  side,  after  the  pattern  of  the  mediaeval  saints ;  the 
broad-church  preacher  looks  forward  and  round  about 
him,  as  if  he  felt  himself  the  heir  of  creation.  Our 
rector  carries  his  head  in  the  broad-church  aspect, 
which  I  suppose  is  the  least  open  to  the  charge  of  af 
fectation,  —  in  fact,  is  the  natural  and  manly  way  of 
carrying  it. 

The  Society  has  justified  its  name  of  Pansophian  of 
late  as  never  before.  Lurida  has  stirred  up  our  little 
community  and  its  neighbors,  so  that  we  get  essays  on 
all  sorts  of  subjects,  poems  and  stories  in  large  num 
bers.  I  know  all  about  it,  for  she  often  consults  me 
as  to  the  merits  of  a  particular  contribution. 

What  is  to  be  the  fate  of  Lurida?  I  often  think, 
with  no  little  interest  and  some  degree  of  anxiety,  about 
her  future.  Her  body  is  so  frail  and  her  mind  so  ex 
cessively  and  constantly  active  that  I  am  afraid  one  or 
the  other  will  give  way.  I  do  not  suppose  she  thinks 
seriously  of  ever  being  married.  She  grows  more  and 
more  zealous  in  behalf  of  her  own  sex,  and  sterner 
in  her  judgment  of  the  other.  She  declares  that  she 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  301 

never  would  marry  any  man  who  was  not  an  advocate 
of  female  suffrage,  and  as  these  gentlemen  are  not 
very  common  hereabouts  the  chance  is  against  her 
capturing  any  one  of  the  hostile  sex. 

What  do  you  think?  I  happened,  just  as  I  was 
writing  the  last  sentence,  to  look  out  of  my  window, 
and  whom  should  I  see  but  Lurida,  with  a  young  man 
in  tow,  listening  very  eagerly  to  her  conversation,  ac 
cording  to  all  appearance !  I  think  he  must  be  a 
friend  of  the  rector,  as  I  have  seen  a  young  man  like 
this  one  in  his  company.  Who  knows  ? 

Affectionately  yours,  etc. 

DR.    BUTTS   TO    MRS.    BUTTS. 

MY  BELOVED  WIFE,  —  This  letter  will  tell  you 
more  news  than  you  would  have  thought  could  have 
been  got  together  in  this  little  village  during  the  short 
time  you  have  been  staying  away  from  it. 

Lurida  Vincent  is  engaged!  He  is  a  clergyman 
with  a  mathematical  turn.  The  story  is  that  he  put  a 
difficult  problem  into  one  of  the  mathematical  jour 
nals,  and  that  Lurida  presented  such  a  neat  solution 
that  the  young  man  fell  in  love  with  her  on  the 
strength  of  it.  I  don't  think  the  story  is  literally  true, 
nor  do  I  believe  that  other  report  that  he  offered  him 
self  to  her  in  the  form  of  an  equation  chalked  on  the 
blackboard ;  but  that  it  was  an  intellectual  rather  than 
a  sentimental  courtship  I  do  not  doubt.  Lurida  has 
given  up  the  idea  of  becoming  a  professional  lecturer, 
—  so  she  tells  me,  —  thinking  that  her  future  hus 
band's  parish  will  find  her  work  enough  to  do.  A 
certain  amount  of  daily  domestic  drudgery  and  unex 
citing  intercourse  with  simple-minded  people  will  be 


302  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  that  brain  of  hers, 
always  simmering  with  some  new  project  in  its  least 
fervid  condition. 

All  our  summer  visitors  have  arrived.  Euthymia 
—  Mrs.  Maurice  Kirkwood  —  and  her  husband  and 
little  Maurice  are  here  in  their  beautiful  house  look 
ing  out  on  the  lake.  They  gave  a  grand  party  the 
other  evening.  You  ought  to  have  been  there,  but  I 
suppose  you  could  not  very  well  have  left  your  sister 
in  the  middle  of  your  visit.  All  the  grand  folks  were 
there,  of  course.  Lurida  and  her  young  man  —  Ga 
briel  is  what  she  calls  him  —  were  naturally  the  objects 
of  special  attention.  Paolo  acted  as  major-domo,  and 
looked  as  if  he  ought  to  be  a  major-general.  Nothing 
could  be  pleasanter  than  the  way  in  which  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Kirkwood  received  their  plain  country  neighbors ; 
that  is,  just  as  they  did  the  others  of  more  pretensions, 
as  if  they  were  really  glad  to  see  them,  as  I  am  sure 
they  were.  The  old  landlord  and  his  wife  had  two 
arm-chairs  to  themselves,  and  I  saw  Miranda  with  the 
servants  of  the  household  looking  in  at  the  dancers  and 
out  at  the  little  groups  in  the  garden,  and  evidently 
enjoying  it  as  much  as  her  old  employers.  It  was  a 
most  charming  and  successful  party.  We  had  two 
sensations  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  One  was 
pleasant  and  somewhat  exciting,  the  other  was  thrill 
ing  and  of  strange  and  startling  interest. 

You  remember  how  emaciated  poor  Maurice  Kirk 
wood  was  left  after  his  fever,  in  that  first  season  when 
he  was  among  us.  He  was  out  in  a  boat  one  day, 
when  a  ring  slipped  off  his  thin  finger  and  sunk  in  a 
place  where  the  water  was  rather  shallow.  "  Jake  "  — 
you  know  Jake,  —  everybody  knows  Jake  —  was  row 
ing  him.  He  promised  to  come  to  the  spot  and  fish 


A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  303 

ap  the  ring-  if  he  could  possibly  find  it.  He  was  seen 
poking  about  with  fish-hooks  at  the  end  of  a  pole,  but 
nothing  was  ever  heard  from  him  about  the  ring.  It 
was  an  antique  intaglio  stone  in  an  Etruscan  setting, 
—  a  wild  goose  flying  over  the  Campagna.  Mr.  Kirk- 
wood  valued  it  highly,  and  regretted  its  loss  very 
much. 

While  we  were  in  the  garden,  who  should  appear  at 
the  gate  but  Jake,  with  a  great  basket,  inquiring  for 
Mr.  Kirkwood.  "  Come,"  said  Maurice  to  me,  "  let 
us  see  what  our  old  friend  the  fisherman  has  brought 
us.  What  have  you  got  there,  Jake  ?  " 

"  What  I  '  ve  got  ?  WaU,  I  '11  tell  y'  what  I  've  got : 
I  Ve  got  the  biggest  pickerel  that 's  been  ketched  in 
this  pond  for  these  ten  year.  An'  I  've  got  somethin' 
else  besides  the  pickerel.  When  I  come  to  cut  him 
open,  what  do  you  think  I  faound  in  his  insides  but 
this  here  ring  o'  yourn,"  —  and  he  showed  the  ono 
Maurice  had  lost  so  long  before.  There  it  was,  as 
good  as  new,  after  having  tried  Jonah's  style  of  house 
keeping  for  all  that  time.  There  ate  those  who  dis 
credit  Jake's  story  about  finding  the  ring  in  the  fish ; 
anyhow,  there  was  the  ring  and  there  was  the  pickerel. 
I  need  not  say  that  Jake  went  off  well  paid  for  his 
pickerel  and  the  precious  contents  of  its  stomach. 
Now  comes  the  chief  event  of  the  evening.  I  went 
early  by  special  invitation.  Maurice  took  me  into  his 
library,  and  we  sat  down  together. 

"  I  have  something  of  great  importance,"  he  said, 
"to  say  to  you.  I  learned  within  a  few  days  that 
my  cousin  Laura  is  staying  with  a  friend  in  the  next 
town  to  this.  You  know,  doctor,  that  we  have  never 
met  since  the  last,  almost  fatal,  experience  of  my  early 
years.  I  have  determined  to  defy  the  strength  of  that 


304  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

deadly  chain  of  associations  connected  with  her  pres 
ence,  and  I  have  begged  her  to  come  this  evening  with 
the  friends  with  whom  she  is  staying.  Several  letters 
passed  between  us,  for  it  was  hard  to  persuade  her 
that  there  was  no  longer  any  risk  in  my  meeting  her. 
Her  imagination  was  almost  as  deeply  impressed  as 
mine  had  been  at  those  alarming  interviews,  and  I  had 
to  explain  to  her  fully  that  I  had  become  quite  indif 
ferent  to  the  disturbing  impressions  of  former  years. 
So,  as  the  result  of  our  correspondence,  Laura  is  com 
ing  this  evening,  and  I  wish  you  to  be  present  at  our 
meeting.  There  is  another  reason  why  I  wish  you  to 
be  here.  My  little  boy  is  not  far  from  the  age  at 
which  I  received  my  terrifying,  almost  disorganizing 
shock.  I  mean  to  have  little  Maurice  brought  into 
the  presence  of  Laura,  who  is  said  to  be  still  a  very 
handsome  woman,  and  see  if  he  betrays  any  hint  of 
that  peculiar  sensitiveness  which  showed  itself  in  my 
threatening  seizure.  It  seemed  to  me  not  impossible 
that  he  might  inherit  some  tendency  of  that  nature, 
and  I  wanted  you  to  be  at  hand  if  any  sign  of  danger 
should  declare  itself.  For  myself  I  have  no  fear. 
Some  radical  change  has  taken  place  in  my  nervous 
system.  I  have  been  born  again,  as  it  were,  in  my 
susceptibilities,  and  am  in  certain  respects  a  new  man. 
But  I  must  know  how  it  is  with  my  little  Maurice." 

Imagine  with  what  interest  I  looked  forward  to  this 
experiment ;  for  experiment  it  was,  and  not  without 
its  sources  of  anxiety,  as  it  seemed  to  me.  The  even 
ing  wore  along ;  friends  and  neighbors  came  in,  but  no 
Laura  as  yet.  At  last  I  heard  the  sound  of  wheels, 
and  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  door.  Two  ladies  and 
a  gentleman  got  out,  and  soon  entered  the  drawing, 
room. 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  305 

"  My  cousin  Laura !  "  whispered  Maurice  to  me,  and 
went  forward  to  meet  her.  A  very  handsome  woman, 
who  might  well  have  been  in  the  thirties,  —  one  of 
those  women  so  thoroughly  constituted  that  they  can 
not  help  being  handsome  at  every  period  of  life.  I 
watched  them  both  as  they  approached  each  other. 
Both  looked  pale  at  first,  but  Maurice  soon  recovered 
his  usual  color,  and  Laura's  natural  rich  bloom  came 
back  by  degrees.  Their  emotion  at  meeting  was  not 
to  be  wondered  at,  but  there  was  no  trace  in  it  of  the 
paralyzing  influence  on  the  great  centres  of  life  which 
had  once  acted  upon  its  fated  victim  like  the  fabled 
head  which  turned  the  looker-on  into  a  stone. 

"  Is  the  boy  still  awake  ?  "  said  Maurice  to  Paolo, 
who,  as  they  used  to  say  of  Pushee  at  the  old  Anchor 
Tavern,  was  everywhere  at  once  on  that  gay  and  busy 
evening. 

"  What !  Mahser  Maurice  asleep  an'  all  this  racket 
going  on  ?  I  hear  him  crowing  like  young  cockerel 
when  he  fus'  smell  daylight." 

"  Tell  the  nurse  to  bring  him  down  quietly  to  the 
little  room  that  leads  out  of  the  library." 

The  child  was  brought  down  in  his  night-clothes, 
wide  awake,  wondering  apparently  at  the  noise  he 
heard,  which  he  seemed  to  think  was  for  his  special 
amusement. 

"  See  if  he  will  go  to  that  lady,"  said  his  father. 
Both  of  us  held  our  breath  as  Laura  stretched  her 
arms  towards  little  Maurice. 

The  child  looked  for  an  instant  searchingly,  but 
fearlessly,  at  her  glowing  cheeks,  her  bright  eyes,  her 
welcoming  smile,  and  met  her  embrace  as  she  clasped 
him  to  her  bosom  as  if  he  had  known  her  all  his  days. 

The  mortal  antipathy  had  died  out  of  the  soul  and 
20 


306  A   MORTAL   ANTIPATHY. 

the  blood  of  Maurice  Kirkwood  at  that  supreme  mo 
ment  when  he  found  himself  snatched  from  the  grasp 
of  death  and  cradled  in  the  arms  of  Eutliymia. 


In  closing  the  New  Portfolio  I  remember  that  it  be 
gan  with  a  prefix  which  the  reader  may  by  this  time 
have  forgotten,  namely, v  the  First  Opening.  It  was 
perhaps  presumptuous  to  thus  imply  the  probability  of 
a  second  opening. 

I  am  reminded  from  time  to  time  by  the  correspond 
ents  who  ask  a  certain  small  favor  of  me  that,  as  I  can 
only  expect  to  be  with  my  surviving  contemporaries  a 
very  little  while  longer,  they  would  be  much  obliged 
if  I  would  hurry  up  my  answer  before  it  is  too  late. 
They  are  right,  these  delicious  unknown  friends  of 
mine,  in  reminding  me  of  a  fact  which  I  cannot  gain 
say  and  might  suffer  to  pass  from  my  recollection.  I 
thank  them  for  recalling  my  attention  to  a  truth  which 
I  shall  be  wiser,  if  not  more  hilarious,  for  remember 
ing. 

No,  I  had  no  right  to  say  the  First  Opening.  How 
do  I  know  that  I  shall  have  a  chance  to  open  it  again  ? 
How  do  I  know  that  anybody  will  want  it  to  be 
opened  a  second  time  ?  How  do  I  know  that  I  shall 
feel  like  opening  it  ?  It  is  safest  neither  to  promise 
to  open  the  New  Portfolio  once  more,  nor  yet  to 
pledge  myself  to  keep  it  closed  hereafter.  There  are 
many  papers  potentially  existent  in  it,  some  of  which 
might  interest  a  reader  here  and  there.  The  Records 
of  the  Pansophian  Society  contain  a  considerable  num 
ber  of  essa}rs,  poems,  stories,  and  hints  capable  of  be 
ing  expanded  into  presentable  dimensions.  In  the 


A  MORTAL   ANTIPATHY.  307 

mean  time  I  will  say  with  Prospero,  addressing  my 

old  readers,  and  my  new  ones,  if  such  I  have, — 

» 

.      "  If  you  be  pleased,  retire  into  my  cell 

And  there  repose  :  a  turn  or  two  I  '11  walk, 
To  still  my  beating  mind." 

When  it  has  got  quiet  I  may  take  up  the  New  Port 
folio  again,  and  consider  whether  it  is  worth  while  to 
open  it. 


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